


Homecoming

by Emospritelet



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Dream Sex, F/M, Family Feels, Making Out, Mutual Pining, Past Lives, Pining, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2019-09-17 14:47:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 37,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16976583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emospritelet/pseuds/Emospritelet
Summary: AU fic in The Long Game verse featuring a past life of Belle and Gold.  It's 1905, and Mr Ogilvy has been searching for his soulmate since they were torn apart six lifetimes ago.  Will the gods take pity on him, and send her home?This was intended as a one-shot, but it made me too sad.  I made Gold into Ogilvy, in honour of Bobby's role in War of the Worlds.  Have some Edwardian Rumbelle!Winner of Best Anyelle Fic in The Espenson Awards 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Long Game](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1351273) by [Emospritelet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emospritelet/pseuds/Emospritelet). 



If he closed his eyes he could pretend it was another Midwinter, in an earlier time.  The smell of the fire, the sharp, clean scent of pine boughs from the greenery stretching across the mantelpiece.  It made him think of winters past, in sheltered caves and wooden roundhouses and tents of heavy animal skins. He remembered their very first Midwinter, warm in their soft bed of furs, her fingers gripping his shoulders as he moved inside her.  He had told her he loved her that night, and countless times over the centuries. He could feel that love deep in his chest, burning and aching, piercing his heart.

Wood snapped in the fire, making him blink, and he opened his eyes fully, hurtling back to the present day.  It was the 21st of December in the year 1905, his name was Ogilvy, and she was still gone.

“Light the candles!”

Alice’s excited voice almost made him smile, and he glanced to the side, watching as she took the hands of little Ava and Nicholas and danced in a circle, her blonde curls trying to work themselves free of the blue ribbon that held them back.  She had settled into his home surprisingly well since he had taken her from the streets, a thin and dirty child who had tried to rob him. She had reeled off a series of curses when he caught her, never repeating the same word twice, and he had admired her fire.  So he had taken her home and handed her over to Mrs Wolfe, the housekeeper, who hid a good heart behind a brusque exterior.

He had thought of taking her on as a servant, but Alice’s intelligence, optimism and natural sense of wonder at the world had made him change his mind, and he had made her his ward.  She had a tendency to collect other strays: eight-year-old twins Ava and Nicholas were the latest, and he was starting to think that perhaps he ought to make plans for their schooling. It wasn’t as though he was doing anything else with his money, after all.

He bent to light one of the wax tapers in the fire, using it to light the candles placed in brass candlesticks along the mantelpiece.  Candle flames stretched and grew, and he blew out the taper, glancing at his reflection in the mirror above the fire. At fifty-five his hair was more grey than brown, and his eyes looked tired, haunted.  Eternal heartbreak would do that to a person, he supposed. Gold-rimmed glasses were perched on his nose; he needed those to read now. He turned his head a little, watching the way the shadows moved, light gleaming on his cheekbones, the lines at the corners of his eyes a little darker, a little deeper.  With the age he was, she would be approaching thirty. No doubt with a family of her own, and blissfully unaware of his existence. Or so he hoped.

_Gods, let her not remember me.  Let her at least not have that torment.  Let her be happy._

“Here.”

Doc’s voice made him glance around, and he took the glass of whisky that was being held out, nodding to the little man.  Doc’s white hair fell messily over his eyes, which were looking up through round-lens glasses that gave him an owlish appearance.

“You looked as though you needed it,” said Doc gently, and he nodded.

“Thinking of times past,” he said.

“As was I.”  Doc’s voice was quiet.  “I was thinking we should take another trip in the Spring.  Perhaps Canada. We could take a boat to New York, spend a week or two there, just in case.”

“Yes.”  He took a sip of his drink, feeling it trace fire down his throat.  “She has to be out there somewhere. Make the arrangements.”

Doc nodded, wandering over to where Alice was still dancing with the other two children, and he closed his eyes again, picturing her face in his mind.  The clock ticked, counting off the seconds of this latest, pointless life, and he prayed to the gods who never listened that she was well, that she was happy.  That she would come back to him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompted: "Can I smell cinnamon?"

The next day was bright and cold, the sun glistening on fresh snow and making Ogilvy squint as he went into town to conclude his pre-Christmas business affairs.  Doc spent the day making enquiries regarding passage to Quebec, and suggested that they wait until late spring to make the journey, to which he reluctantly agreed.  The delay made him anxious, but he told himself that if the fates wanted them to find her, waiting until the harsh winter was over wouldn't interfere with that.  A trip to Canada was a good notion, he decided.  They had not been there for some years, and it was entirely possible that she was there.  She had to be somewhere, after all. Perhaps Alice could journey with them; the trip would be good for her, and her natural energy and enthusiasm would stop him falling into the deepest depths of despair. Ava and Nicholas would have to stay behind, of course, but it would be good for them too.  They needed to start their schooling, and now was as good a time as ever.

The morning of the 23rd of December brought a low fog rolling in to hang over the city, the air cold enough to bite at the back of the throat and make one’s breath catch.  Ogilvy had risen early and taken his usual walk around the park, lost in his own thoughts. He did two circuits of the park instead of his usual one, and by the time he returned to the house his feet were numb with cold.  There was an air of excitement in the breakfast room that made him smile. Alice and the others had eaten, and she was chatting about the fair that was in town, and her plans to take the two youngsters with her.

“Why don’t we all go?” suggested Doc brightly.  “I for one could use the exercise.”

“Can the servants come too?” asked Alice eagerly.  “Ivy was telling me how she’d so like to go, and they all work so hard!”

“If Mrs Wolfe has no objection, then nor do I,” said Ogilvy.  “I believe I’ll stay here, though. I have a few matters of business to attend to.  Make sure you wrap up warmly, the weather’s taken a bitter turn.”

She squeaked in excitement and ran over, pressing a kiss to his cheek and making him smile.

“Don’t spend all your money on sweets, mind,” he said, and she grinned.

“We won’t!”

He watched them hurry out, Alice holding the hands of the younger children and chattering about the importance of gloves.  The house seemed eerily quiet when they had gone, and he poured himself a cup of coffee and made his way to the library. The fire was burning, the room pleasantly warm, and the feeling was starting to come back into his feet as he set down his cup.  He had no appetite for breakfast, but the coffee would be welcome while he went through his letters.

* * *

It was some time later that he heard the doorbell, but it barely registered.  He was reading through a letter from one of his contacts in Boston, and the report made him slump in his chair a little.  A young woman matching Belle’s description had been seen at a dinner held by one of Boston’s premier families. He had allowed himself to feel the faintest hope, but his contact had now conversed with the woman, and reported that she had brown eyes, not blue.  It was not her. He tossed the letter aside, closing his eyes with a heavy sigh, and Mrs Wolfe herself entered the library, stout and stern-looking in her black dress, iron-grey hair neatly pinned up on her head.

“There’s a Miss Marchland here to see you, sir,” she said, eyes bright behind her pince-nez glasses.  “Says she has a letter of introduction from Lady Ella Deville.”

“Oh?” he said, puzzled.  “Well, please send her in.”

Mrs Wolfe bowed her head and left the room, and he turned to a brief instruction he was writing to his lawyer, signing it with a flourish and setting it aside.  He had seen Lady Ella two weeks ago, at a tedious dinner party where both of them had had a little too much brandy, but he couldn’t recall her saying anything about sending him a servant.  They had talked about her daughter going off to Vienna for a year, and his own plans for Ava and Nicholas. Still, he supposed Mrs Wolfe could always use more help.

“Miss Marchland,” announced Mrs Wolfe, and Ogilvy put down his pen and pushed his glasses up on his nose.

“Miss Marchland,” he said, pushing back his chair and standing up as he heard footsteps enter the room.  “I understand you come with—”

He cut off, mouth falling open as he came face to face with a ghost.  She was gazing back at him calmly, dressed in a demure grey coat and skirt, the toes of black buttoned boots peeking out beneath the hem.  Gloved hands were clasped around the handle of a leather satchel, and her hair was pinned up beneath a neat black hat, its shining chestnut only just visible.  Her cheeks were pink with the cold, her eyes as blue as the winter sky, and it felt as though he had been punched in the chest, his heart shattered into a thousand pieces and clumsily remade with desperate hands.  It was pounding in his chest, in his throat, his lips tingling with the force of it, and he felt the room close in around him, as though he might faint.

He was aware that he was holding his breath, and snapped his mouth shut.  Perhaps it was a dream. He had had too many of those to count, and he bit the inside of his cheeks hard.  Not a dream. She was here. After centuries of searching, waiting, despairing, the fickle gods had finally listened, and had sent her home to him.  There was a tiny line of confusion between her brows, and he realised that he hadn’t finished his sentence and was staring at her like a damn fool.

“I - ah - I understand you come with a letter of introduction,” he said, amazed that his voice was so steady. “From Lady Ella Deville.”

“Yes, sir, I have it here.”

Her voice was low and melodious, and he felt tears welling up inside him, a lake of them, an ocean.  How long since he had heard her speak? She was handing him something, a neatly-folded letter in a thick cream envelope.  Taking it from her and opening it gave him something to do other than think about how much he wanted to break down and weep.  He couldn’t concentrate on the words, his vision swimming and blurring, but from the little he managed to read he deduced the purpose of her visit.

“You’re a governess?” he said, raising his eyes to hers.

It almost hurt to look at her directly, and he had to drop his gaze again, focusing on his hands clutching the letter.  There was a tiny smudge of ink on the tip of his forefinger, showing up the loops and whorls in his skin.

“Her Ladyship informed me that you have two children,” she said, making him look up again.

Her voice lacked the warmth he was used to, her tone cool and efficient, with the proper deference that would be required of someone in her station.  She was entirely indifferent to his presence, and he reminded himself that she had no memory of him. It hurt: a sharp stabbing in his chest, but she was real, and she was alive, and he wanted to take her in his arms and cry.

“I - yes.”  He gave up on the letter, tossing it onto his desk, and gestured to the chairs near the fire.  “Well, they’re not mine, really. Alice keeps bringing strays home from the back streets and I take them in and wash the lice out of their hair.  She’s little more than a child herself, so perhaps I have three. Please, take a seat. Would you like some tea? Or perhaps some coffee? Something else?  The cook makes excellent hot chocolate and the weather’s cold enough to warrant some…”

She blinked, briefly hiding her eyes and her obvious puzzlement both at his babbling and his lack of propriety.  She would soon learn that his household was as unorthodox as Lady Ella’s. He rang the bell, and gestured to the chairs again.  She eyed him curiously, but crossed to the chairs and sat perched on the edge of one of them, hands resting demurely on her lap as he paced up and down, a mixture of nerves and pure, intense joy making him restless.  He was aware that he was toying with the ring on his right hand, a thick gold band set with a moonstone. Miss Marchland was looking around the library with interest.

“I’m sure you enjoy reading,” he said.  “You would be welcome to spend as much time in the library as you please.”

She smiled at him then, her face lighting up, and he had to turn away.  The tears were welling in his eyes, and he dashed them away with shaking fingers, his back to her.  The arrival of Mrs Wolfe was a welcome distraction, and he clapped his hands together, making her eyes narrow a little behind her glasses.

“Ah!” he said.  “Hot chocolate, if you please, Mrs Wolfe.  And perhaps something sweet to go with it? I didn’t eat breakfast.  Careless of me.”

“Of course, sir,” she said, eyeing him curiously.  “I thought you might be hungry. I’ll bring it myself; the maids have all gone to the fair.”

“Yes, of course, of course.”

Her gaze flicked briefly to Miss Marchland before she left, and Ogilvy returned to his desk, snatching up the letter from Lady Ella.  This time he managed to read it through, and raised his eyes.

“You are competent at Latin and Greek?” he asked, and she smiled.

“Yes, sir.  I studied at Girton College.”

“You studied at university,” he whispered, his cheeks aching from holding in a smile.  “Of course you did. Of course.”

She put her head to the side, as though he were a curiosity she didn’t quite understand.

“I - have my diploma,” she said, reaching into the small leather satchel she carried.  “And references from Professors Magus and Drake. I should be delighted to make use of my studies.  Previous employers appeared not to value them quite so highly.”

He took the papers she handed him, two envelopes which he set aside, and the diploma.   _Annabelle Colette Marchland.  Dear gods, thank you. Thank you._

“Belle,” he whispered, and she raised a slim, dark brow.

“That’s what my mother used to call me,” she said.  “I was always Miss Marchland to Lady Ella, however.”

He looked up.  That crease was back between her eyes, and he realised that he must seem very strange to her.  Strange and over-familiar.

“Forgive me,” he said, handing back the diploma.  “I - you remind me of someone, that’s all. Forgive me.”

She tucked the diploma back into her satchel, and he began to pace again, striding up and down before the shelves of books that contained works on history and politics.

“How old are your children, Mr Ogilvy?” she asked, and he started, spinning on his toes to face her again, still turning the moonstone ring on his finger.

“Ava and Nicholas are eight,” he said.  “Alice is sixteen. I daresay she could use some further instruction - I taught her to read, and some mathematics and principles of management, but she never took to any of the governesses I employed.  Too much focus on needlework and nothing useful, she said.”

Belle bit her lip, as though she was trying to hold in a smile.

“I - I suppose you would want the girls to follow a different curriculum to Nicholas?” she said, and looked surprised when he shook his head.

“Not at all,” he said.  “I’d like you to teach them all you know.  Classics, languages, mathematics. I don’t want the girls to miss out on anything because society believes embroidery more appropriate for them than science.”

Belle’s eyes sparkled, a tiny smile lifting the corners of her mouth.  She was so beautiful he wanted to cry.

“I have an interest in the sciences, too,” she said.  “Although I must confess it’s fairly amateur and needs developing.  Astronomy is fascinating.”

He looked up at that.

“I - ah - have a telescope in one of the attic rooms,” he said.  “You’re more than welcome to use it.”

Her smile widened in delight, and he had to look away again, blinking rapidly.  Thankfully the door opened, and Mrs Wolfe entered with a tray containing a tall, thin pot of steaming chocolate and two small cups, alongside a plate containing some small cakes.  She set it down, walking sedately from the room, and he poured two cups, ribbons of fragrant steam rising up from the rich brown liquid, the scent of melted chocolate and spices drifting into his nose.  Belle took a cup from him with a nod of thanks.

“Can I smell cinnamon?” she asked, and he smiled.

“It’s a quirk of this household,” he said.  “A spiced syrup made by our cook. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”  She looked up at him through her thick lashes as she took a sip.  “It’s delicious.”

He picked up his own cup, and sat in the chair opposite her, taking a sip of the sweet chocolate before glancing at her over the top of his glasses.

“I should be delighted to offer you a position in this house, Miss Marchland,” he said gently.  “Are you able to start immediately?”

She looked surprised at that, but only momentarily.

“I am,” she said.

“Excellent,” he said.  “Excellent.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompted: 1: "If you throw that snowball at me..."

Ogilvy wasn’t sure how he managed to get through the remainder of the conversation with Belle without either breaking down or having her think him insane.  He had certainly given her reason enough. His behaviour had been somewhat manic: alternating from dashing away tears with his thumbs, to pacing the room in a bid to burn off his nervous energy, to babbling about anything that he could think of, anything at all to distract him from the fact that she was alive, she was there, and he wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her for the first time in centuries.

To Belle’s credit, she had taken his strange behaviour in her stride, the slight crease between her brows the only reaction betraying her puzzlement, and once she had drunk her hot chocolate and agreed to return that evening to start her new position, he had Mrs Wolfe show her out.  Then he locked the library door, slumped into one of the wing-back chairs by the fire, put his head in his hands, and wept.

Crying made him feel a little better, the grief of six lifetimes draining out of him, and when he was done he sat back in the chair, drawing rapid, shuddering breaths.  His hands moved restlessly, his body unable to be still, humming with the memory of her presence, the sound of her voice, the gleam in her blue eyes. He sat up a little, fingers stroking over the armrests of the chair.  They were worn and dull, the sheen of oxblood leather gone where his fingertips rubbed over the edges, and he let his head roll back with a sigh, pushing his glasses up on his nose. He had to find Doc.

Pushing out of the chair, a new energy filled him and he almost bounced out of the room, racing to grab his hat and coat and wind a scarf around his neck before he hurried from the house.  The day was bright and clear, and so cold it made his breath catch in his throat before streaming out in a billow of white mist. He set off towards the town at a run, slipping and almost falling before slowing to a more sedate pace.  They had gone to the fair. Finding them amongst the likely crowds was going to be difficult, but he was too happy to care.  She was real.  She was alive.  She was home.

He took a shortcut across the park, feet sinking into the thick snow, and to his relief he saw Doc in the distance, plodding along with his head bowed, lost in thought.  Ava and Nicholas ran along behind him, criss-crossing the snowy ground and stopping to hurl snowballs at one another and squeal with delight. Doc raised his head with a surprised look on his face as Ogilvy hurtled towards him, skidding to a halt and bending over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

“I say, what on earth’s the matter?” asked Doc, bewildered.

“She’s here!” gasped Ogilvy.  “She’s here! She’s come home!  Oh gods, Doc, she’s come home!”

There was a moment of stunned silence, in which he could hear nothing but the chirps of birds, the distant squeals from Ava and Nicholas and the sound of his own laboured breathing.  The cold air was making his lungs hurt. Doc was staring at him incredulously, and he stepped forward to grasp his upper arms, an urgent light in his eyes. The light of hope.

“She’s home?” he whispered.  “After all this time, she found us?”

Ogilvy nodded rapidly, straightening up and dashing away the tears that were threatening to freeze on his cheeks.

“Her name is Annabelle Marchland,” he managed.  “She’s a governess.  Lady Ella sent her over, and I could bloody well go to her house and kiss her, Doc!  She sent her home to us!  All these years, we’ve been searching far and wide, looking for a bloody noblewoman, and she’s tucked away as a governess at Furton Grange, teaching Ella’s bloody daughter!”

He wanted to laugh for joy, and Doc was smiling at him, eyes sparkling.

“I’ve said I’ll take her on to teach the little ones,” added Ogilvy.  “I could barely speak to her, Doc. I practically broke down and wept at her feet.  She must think me very strange.”

Doc opened his mouth to say something, then snapped it shut and closed his eyes with a sigh.

“Nicholas,” he said evenly.  “If you throw that snowball at me, there will be consequences.”

Over his shoulder, Ogilvy saw Nicholas, still forming the snow in his gloved hands, exchange an awed, almost scared look with Ava, and hastily drop it.

“Go on,” said Doc gently.

Ogilvy snatched off his hat and ran a hand through his hair.  The winter cold bit at the tips of his ears, slicing at his skin, but he hardly felt it.

“She’s coming this evening,” he said.  “I - I don’t know what to do. What if she has the stone?  What if she doesn’t? Will she know us - even a little? What do I tell her?  Do I tell her _anything_?”

Doc put firm hands on his shoulders.

“I don’t know,” he said earnestly.  “All we can do is make her welcome, and see what happens.  Hopefully she’ll feel the bond. Perhaps not like it was, but - well, we’ll worry about that if and when it happens.  Let’s concentrate on getting her settled.”

“Yes.”  Ogilvy chewed his lower lip.  “Yes. Of course you’re right.  I’ll head on back, make sure Mrs Wolfe has everything in hand.”

“Good.”  Doc dropped his hands to his sides, still smiling.  “We’ll show her this is her home.”

“Yes.”  He closed his eyes, a serene smile spreading across his face.  “Yes.”

He let out a deep sigh, the breath leaving his lungs in a plume of white, and ran a hand over his mouth, eyes flicking around the park.

“Where’s Alice?” he asked.

“She wanted to stay a little longer,” said Doc.  “I was getting cold, so I thought I’d bring the children back with me.  She’ll return with the servants later.”

“Right,” said Ogilvy absently.  “Yes. Good. I’ll - ah - I’ll head on back, then.”

He hurried back to the house, leaving Doc and the children to follow at a slower pace, and nodded to Mrs Wolfe as she opened the door to him.

“I didn’t realise you’d gone out, sir,” she said, closing the door and reaching for his coat.

"I had an urgent matter of business," he said.  "Where's Hatter?"

"He went to the fair with the others, sir," she said.  “I suspect they'll be back before too long.  Would you like some luncheon?”

“Ah - yes, thank you,” he said.  “The Professor is on his way back with the children.  I’m sure they’re hungry. Something simple will do; I’m aware that almost everyone has gone to the fair.”

“Mrs Potts has prepared a mutton pie,” said Mrs Wolfe, folding the coat over her arm.  “I could ask her to make up some sandwiches, and there’s potted shrimp.”

“Good, good,” he said vaguely, unwinding the scarf from around his neck.  “If you could let everyone know that Miss Marchland is going to be joining us this evening.  I’ve agreed to take her on as governess for the children.”

Mrs Wolfe smiled, taking his scarf and hat.

“Of course, sir,” she said.  “I’ll have one of the maids ensure the rooms are aired.”

“No no, I don’t want her in the rooms by the nursery,” he said.  “Put her in the Rose Room.”

A rapid blinking was the only hint that Mrs Wolfe gave of this break in protocol.

“The Rose Room?” she said thinly.  “For a governess?”

“That’s what I said.”

She was silent, and he sighed, fixing her with a stare.

“Miss Marchland is coming to teach the children,” he said.  “But she is to be treated as though she is part of this family, do you understand?  She is to take her meals with us, and have the best guest room, and she is to be welcomed into this house by you and all the others under your command.”

“Very good, sir,” she said, after a pause.  “Including dinner, sir?”

“Well, of course including dinner,” he said shortly.  “I’m hardly likely to banish her to the schoolroom every evening at eight, now am I?”

“That _is_ the traditional place for a governess to eat her dinner, sir.”

“Well, tradition isn’t something I hold all that dearly,” he muttered.

“Given her profession, sir,” added Mrs Wolfe carefully.  “You may find that she - lacks the necessary wardrobe for nightly dining.”

“Then a trip to the dressmaker will be in order, won’t it?” he said, losing patience.

There was a longer pause.

“Very good, sir.”

* * *

Belle had paid little attention to the interior of the house when she had attended for her initial interview with Mr Ogilvy, so she made sure to look around as she followed the indomitable figure of Mrs Wolfe up the stairs.  The house was a little outdated in its decor, but very beautiful, the long, sweeping banister running smoothly beneath one gloved hand as she mounted the stairs. Mrs Wolfe turned left at the top, and headed down the corridor at a sedate pace.  The walls were a deep red, the floorboards creaking under their feet a little.

“Mr Hatter will take up your trunk, Miss Marchland,” said Mrs Wolfe, over her shoulder.  “I’m sure you’ll want a little time to freshen up.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Belle, clutching the handles of her valise.  “Are the children in bed?”

“Yes.  Mr Ogilvy is reading to them.”

She smiled at that.  It was pleasing for a man to want to be so involved in the raising of children.  Particularly when they weren’t his own. Mr Ogilvy seemed to her to be intelligent, pleasant and polite.  If a little odd.

“You’ll meet them at breakfast,” added Mrs Wolfe.  “They’re good children, on the whole. A little wild, but that’s to be expected, considering the start they had in life.  I daresay they’ll settle down. Miss Alice did, after all.”

She paused outside a door of polished oak, and reached out to turn the handle.  Belle’s eyes widened as she followed her in. The room was very large, with a canopied bed hung with velvet drapes in rich red, the walls a deep pink.  There was a walnut dresser and wardrobe, and a large free-standing mirror off to the side. A _chaise longue_ upholstered in olive green velvet and set with cushions in red and gold silk sat opposite two chairs, with a small table in between.  The windows were tall, with heavy curtains in the same red velvet as the bed drapes, held back by thick cords of gold brocade.

“This will be your room,” said Mrs Wolfe, and Belle shook her head.

“I - I think there must be some mistake,” she said.  “This room is - very grand.”

“Well, at least someone around here knows how things are supposed to be done,” remarked Mrs Wolfe, under her breath.  “Mr Ogilvy insisted upon you being given this room, Miss Marchland, and I am simply carrying out his orders. He has also requested that you take all your meals with the family.  Including dinner.”

“Dinner?”  Belle’s eyes widened further.  “But - but I only have one suitable dress!  I can’t sit up to dinner every night! I presumed I would be eating in my own rooms!”

“I did try to make this point to him,” said Mrs Wolfe stiffly.  “Perhaps you might have more luck. However, for tonight may I suggest you do as he asks?  I’ll send Ivy to help you dress.”

She nodded to Belle, not unkindly, and left her to it.  Belle put her valise on the wide bed, chewing her lip in consternation.  He had offered her an excellent wage, far higher than she would have dared to ask for, and now she had a room fit for a visiting duchess.  It appeared that Mr Ogilvy was every bit as eccentric as Lady Ella had suggested.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompted: "You know it's traditional, right?"

Belle sat quietly in front of the mirror of her dresser, watching as Ivy brushed her hair until it shone and pinned the curls up into a loose bun at the back of her head.  Ivy was a pretty young woman, with large dark eyes and black hair held back from her face with a neat white cap. She had eyed Belle with curiosity ever since she had come to the room and announced that she would be helping her to dress, and Belle couldn’t help wondering what the servants must think of her, this governess being treated like an honoured guest.  She hoped that it wouldn’t cause resentment, but thus far everyone had been kind and welcoming.

She was clad in her one formal evening dress.  Lady Ella had kindly bought it for her, to attend the dinner to celebrate her daughter’s final night at home before heading off to Europe.  The dress was a pretty thing in blue silk with little ruffles running down the bosom and tiny pearl buttons. She had silk shoes to match, and gloves that reached to her elbows.  Her one piece of jewellery, a cameo brooch that had belonged to her mother, was pinned at her throat. Looking at her reflection, she felt like a fraud, a penniless woman pretending to be a lady of means. She had the breeding, but certainly not the money.  Mr Ogilvy’s generous wage would last only as long as the children needed to be taught, and she suspected that Nicholas, at least, would be sent away to school in a year or two. It was always so, in her experience.

“Just a little longer, Miss Marchland,” said Ivy, securing another curl with a pin.  “I need to re-pin this back section.”

“Thank you,” said Belle.  “Is anyone else coming for dinner this evening?”

Ivy shook her head.

“Just you and Mr Ogilvy, the Professor and Miss Alice,” she said.

“How long have you worked here?” asked Belle.

“Since I was fourteen, Miss.”

“And you like it?”

“Oh yes,” said Ivy immediately.  “It’s a nice family. A little odd, Miss, if you’ll pardon me for saying so.  The Professor - well, he’s in a world of his own half the time. Kind, though.”

“And - and Mr Ogilvy?” asked Belle, and Ivy pursed her lips.

“He’s kind too,” she said.  “Took in Miss Alice, and the two little ones, and treats them like they’re his own.  Not many men would do that. I wish he wasn’t so sad, though.”

“You think he’s sad?” asked Belle.  “He seemed very cheerful to me when I met him.”

Ivy was silent for a moment, twisting the lock of hair in her fingers and pinning it up.

“I think he lost someone, Miss,” she said eventually.  “Someone he cared about. Has that look in his eyes.”

“Oh.”  Belle glanced at her reflection in the mirror.  “He said I reminded him of someone. Was there a Mrs Ogilvy?”

Ivy shrugged.

“Not since I started work here,” she said.  “Before that, Miss, I couldn’t say.”

She pushed a final pin into Belle’s hair and stepped back.

“Thank you,” said Belle, turning her head from left to right.  “That’s so much better than I could ever manage.”

Ivy smiled at that, and left her to it.  Belle sighed to herself, smoothing her hands over her skirt restlessly.  It was almost eight, so she rose from the dresser and checked her appearance one last time before making her way downstairs.  The dining room was easy enough to find, and to her relief it wasn’t large and draughty as Lady Ella’s had been. It was decorated in olive green damask wallpaper, oil lamps and candles sending out a warm glow, and a fire burned at the end of the room beneath a carved marble mantelpiece, giving the room a welcome warmth.  The shining mahogany table would comfortably seat twelve, she thought, but didn’t look too sparse having been set for four.

Mr Ogilvy sat at the head of the table, and a short old man with white hair and a somewhat distracted expression was in the seat two places down on his left.  The Professor, she assumed. Both of the men were formally attired in black dress coats with white waistcoats and starched shirts, white bow ties at their throats.  They stood as soon as she entered, and the girl with them smiled at her, a ribbon holding back tousled blonde curls and a pretty dress in dusky pink setting off the colour in her cheeks.   _That must be Miss Alice._

“Miss Marchland,” said Mr Ogilvy warmly, rounding the edge of the table and stepping forward.  “We’re so glad you could join us. I trust you’ve settled in?”

“Thank you,” she said.  “Everyone’s been so kind.”

“And the room?” he asked, almost anxiously.  “It’s satisfactory?”

“More than satisfactory,” she said hastily.  “It’s a beautiful room. It’s - well, it’s fit for a princess.”

“Excellent,” he said.  “Tomorrow I’ll introduce you to the children, and show you around the place.  The schoolroom is fairly well stocked, but if there’s anything you need, anything at all, please inform me.”

“I will, thank you.”

He was smiling at her, the lamplight gleaming in his eyes and picking out threads of gold and silver in his hair.  She noticed that he was turning the moonstone ring on his finger as he looked at her, and he seemed almost unaware of it.  The other man cleared his throat, and Ogilvy started, dropping his hands to his sides.

“Please, allow me to introduce you,” he said, gesturing to the man beside him.  “This is Professor Lowe, my very good friend.”

“Miss Marchland.”  The Professor scurried forwards, taking her hands in his and beaming at her as though she were a favoured daughter.  “Wonderful to meet you. Simply wonderful. Marvellous.”

“I - thank you, Professor,” she said.  “I was delighted to be offered this opportunity.”

She was a little taken-aback by his effusive greeting.  He was gazing up at her adoringly, and she could almost have sworn there were tears in his eyes.  He blinked rapidly, releasing her hands and taking a step back.

“Oh, you can just call me Doc, dear,” he said.  “Everyone does.”

“I—”  She was unsure how to respond to that.   _This family is very odd._

“He’s not wrong,” said Alice suddenly, the accent of one of the poorer parts of the city strong in her voice.  “No need to be alarmed, Miss Marchland, we’re as sane as you, I promise. Papa’s just in a strange mood today, it seems, and now Doc’s caught it.”

“And this is Alice,” said Ogilvy in a dry tone.  “A cheeky nuisance I don't seem to have been able to get rid of."

"You love me really," said Alice, batting her eyes at him, and his smile grew.

"Miss Marchland, please take a seat.”

He gestured to the table, and Belle hesitated.  There was a place set for her, in the chair to his right.  Its positioning made her frown a little in confusion, but she took her seat without comment.  If they wished to treat her as an honoured guest rather than an employee, it spoke well of them.  Alice sat opposite her and to Ogilvy’s left, with the Professor next to her. He asked a question, something innocuous about Lady Ella, and Belle picked up the cue with ease, talking about her previous position and the gardens at Furton Grange while they were served a delicious beef consommé.

“I’m afraid this house isn’t as grand as you’re used to,” said the Professor, gesturing with his spoon.  “It’s comfortable enough, though.”

“Oh, it’s lovely,” said Belle hastily.  “I’m anxious to explore the library. It’s always exciting to find new books.”

The two men exchanged a tiny smile, and Ogilvy spoke up.

“I spend a lot of time in the library myself,” he said.  “I have an adjoining study. Oh, now that I mention it, the study has a safe.  If you have anything valuable you wish to keep in there - jewellery, for example - you would be very welcome.”

Belle smiled.

“Thank you, but this is the only thing of value I possess,” she said, tapping the cameo at her throat.  “It belonged to my mother. I have no other pieces of jewellery.”

“Ah.”  He seemed to deflate a little, and his eyes flicked to the Professor.  “Well, should that change, do please let me know.”

Belle smiled and nodded, and he returned his attention to his plate.  There was a little small talk about the weather and the approaching Christmas festivities, and then the Professor asked about her studies, a subject on which she could have happily talked for hours.

It was some time between the fried fillets of plaice and the veal sweetbreads in cream sauce that Belle first caught Ogilvy looking at her.  He had said little to her, leaving his friend to take up the reins as host. The Professor, it turned out, taught history at King’s College, and Belle entered into a spirited discussion with him about the Plantagenets.  She happened to glance to Ogilvy as she paused for breath, and he was watching her with a tiny smile on his face and a soft, almost wistful look in his eyes. As though he could hardly believe she was real. He looked away a moment after she caught his eyes, but she could feel his eyes on her during the remainder of the dinner.  Surprisingly, it didn’t make her feel uncomfortable. Merely curious.

Alice was fairly quiet, concentrating on her food for the most part, but her eyes kept flicking from Ogilvy to Belle, and there was a faint air of puzzlement about her, a thoughtfulness in her gaze.  She sat back once the meal was over, fingers tapping against the edge of the table, chewing distractedly on her lower lip.

“Alice,” said Ogilvy gently, and she started.

“Oh!” she said.  “Yes! Um - Miss Marchland, we’re supposed to go to the drawing room now.”

Belle dabbed at her lips with her napkin to hide a smile, then laid it aside and followed Alice from the room.  The drawing room was smaller and warmer, with soft couches upholstered in cream and red striped cotton, cushions covered in red damask silk in their corners.  There was a tray of tea things ready for them, and Alice poured for them both, handing a cup to Belle before taking her own. They sat down on one of the couches, and Alice took a sip of her tea, eyeing Belle over the rim.

“What are you going to teach Ava and Nicholas?” she asked.

“I’ll assess where they are at the moment, before I make any decisions,” said Belle.  “As I understand it, they’ve had little in the way of formal education.”

“They’re bright enough,” said Alice.  “I think they can read and write a little.  Probably better with numbers. Money. I know I was, at their age.”

“Perhaps.”  Belle took a sip of tea.  “I’ll know more tomorrow, and I can devise a curriculum.”

Alice seemed to hesitate a little.

“I - I don’t want lessons as such, myself,” she said.  “But - well, I thought perhaps you could teach me how to act more - ladylike.”

Belle smiled.

“Of course, if you wish.”

“I think most of it’s nonsense,” added Alice.  “But I’ve spoken to quite a few people of my own age who - well, who don’t share my background - and it’s almost like there’s this secret code I can’t break through. I suppose I’ll have to start going out into society soon, and I don’t want to embarrass Papa and Doc because I sat in the wrong place or insulted someone by accident.”

“Very wise."

“I mean, if I insult someone, I want it to be because they _deserve_ it.”

Belle wanted to giggle, but simply smiled.

“I’d be more than happy to teach you the many, varied, _exhausting_ rules of etiquette,” she said.

Alice groaned, and they shared a chuckle.  Belle added a little more milk to her tea, stirring it gently and tapping the spoon against the rim.

“We put the Christmas tree up tomorrow,” said Alice.  “Papa likes to bring pine boughs and mistletoe and holly in the house in time for midwinter, but we always get the tree on Christmas Eve.”

“I look forward to seeing it,” said Belle, smiling.  “Watching the tree being decorated was always my favourite part of Christmas.”

“You can help us!” said Alice eagerly.  “It’ll be Ava and Nicholas’s first proper Christmas, with a tree and presents and roast goose.  I can’t _wait_ to see their faces!”

“Oh, you have goose?”  Belle beamed. “Lady Ella always had turkey.  I must confess I do prefer goose.”

“Roast goose and plum pudding and mince pies, and all of us getting a little fatter,” said Alice cheerfully.  “You know it’s traditional, right?”

Belle took a sip of tea, smiling into her cup, and Alice sighed, glancing towards the door.

“I don’t know why we have to sit in here drinking tea while they have port and brandy and cigars,” she remarked.  “Doesn’t seem fair to me.”

“It’s the way things are done, I suppose,” said Belle.  “One of those tiresome rules you want to learn.  Perhaps that will change.  When I was your age women couldn’t even ride bicycles without causing an uproar.”

“Not sure it’s all that better now,” said Alice.  “My last governess said they weren’t ladylike, and if I rode one I’d get ‘bicycle face’ and no man would ever marry me.  As though that was some sort of threat.”

She curled her lip, and Belle smiled.

“Well, I certainly shan’t discourage you,” she said.  “I think it’s a very healthy form of exercise. Of course, it’s not up to me.  I’m afraid that in my experience, men and women can have conflicting ideas about the appropriate activities a young lady should be involved in.”

“Oh, Papa wouldn’t stop me,” said Alice carelessly.  “I realise he’s trying to do things properly this evening, for some reason, but they’re not usually like this.  Most nights they’re sitting around in smoking jackets, arguing about history and drinking whisky. It seems you’re an honoured guest.”

“I can’t think why,” said Belle, setting her cup back in its saucer.  “But it’s very kind of you all to show me this much attention. I certainly wasn’t expecting to be asked to dine with the family.”

She glanced down at her dress, the silk shining in the lamplight, and Alice seemed to read her mind.

“I suppose that’s your best dress?” she asked kindly.  “I only had one thing to wear when I got here, and that wasn’t even fit for rags.  I can tell Papa, he’ll get you new clothes.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t let him do that,” said Belle hastily.  “You’re very kind, but it wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“He did it for me,” said Alice, with a shrug.

“Yes, but you’re—”  Belle cut off, shaking her head.  “Ivy told me he took you in, treated you as his daughter.  I think your status in this household is somewhat different from mine.”

Alice sipped at her tea.

“Maybe it is.”

She looked amused, smiling behind her cup, and Belle wondered what she was thinking.  She took another sip of her tea.

“How old were you when you came to the house?” she asked, and Alice pursed her lips, frowning a little as she placed her cup back in its saucer.

“I was seven or eight, I think,” she said eventually.  “Around the same age as Nicholas and Ava are now. Tried to pick Papa’s pocket, but he was too quick for me.  I swear Doc told him I was gonna do it: he seemed to know I was there before I even made a move.”

“What happened?” asked Belle curiously, and Alice giggled, a mischievous light in her eyes.

“He grabbed me, lifted me into the air so my kicks wouldn’t reach him, and just looked at me with this tiny smile on his face as I called him every name under the sun,” she said frankly.  “Then he told me that I looked as though I needed a decent meal, and to follow them home if I wanted one. So I did. Still calling him every terrible name I could think of. Mrs Wolfe threatened to wash my mouth out with soap three times that first day.”

Belle couldn’t help smiling.

“But you’re happy here?” she asked.

“Oh yes!” said Alice eagerly.  “They’re both so kind, and I got to learn to read and write properly, and Papa teaches me science.  I just wish they’d let me help out with their investigations.”

“Investigations?”

“Yes.”  Alice put down her cup.  “They investigate things.  Strange occurrences, hauntings, that sort of thing.  Supernatural encounters, Doc calls them.”

“Really?”  Belle raised a sceptical eyebrow.  “Isn’t that sort of thing just pranks and hoaxes, like knocking on tables and flickering lights?  Parlour games to scare people?”

Alice shrugged.

“Not according to them,” she said.  “Sometimes they’ll hear of something, or read of a strange case in the newspapers, but they also get letters asking them for help.  So off they go to look into it, whenever Doc isn’t teaching. Sometimes Papa goes alone.”

“Well.”  Belle was unsure what to make of this latest revelation.  “It sounds very - interesting.”

“Yes,” said Alice thoughtfully.  “I just wish they’d take me with them when they go away, that’s all.  Papa said they would, next time they go.”

“Do they travel a lot?” asked Belle, taking a sip of tea.

Alice rolled her eyes, huffing a breath and making one of her blonde curls dance on the breeze.

“They’ll be home for a couple of months,” she said.  “And then they’ll get a letter, or Doc will get one of his _notions_ , and immediately they’re packing up and heading off.  Sometimes they even go to Scotland or France or over to Ireland, and I have to stay here.  It’s not fair.”

“Oh.”  Belle set down her cup.  “I have to confess that I haven't left the country in ten years or more.  Lady Ella and her daughter used to go to Paris a lot, but I was never asked to accompany them.”

“Well, perhaps Papa will take you with them when they go,” said Alice.  “As well as me.”

Belle smiled at that.

“I suspect I’ll be asked to stay here to care for the children,” she said.  “You’ll have to tell me all about it when you get back.”

Alice smiled, and set her empty cup back on the little table, sitting back a little and folding her hands in her lap.

“Perhaps they won’t go away at all,” she said.  “Perhaps they’ve found what they were looking for.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Note
> 
> 1\. Turkeys started to be eaten in England in the 16th century after being introduced by the navigator William Strickland.  They did not become popular Christmas fare until the 19th century, however, and many households still served goose or beef.  The richer households started serving turkey, and this filtered down into the middle classes. By the end of the nineteenth century, turkey was the most popular meat to be served at Christmas, and continues to be so to this day.  
>    
> 2\. Women were indeed mocked for riding bicycles, and ‘bicycle face’ was a term coined in a bid to put women off riding.  It was said that women who rode would have permanent expressions of strain and exhaustion, and wouldn’t be attractive to men (the horror!).  Men were also scandalised at the idea of women both having the freedom to travel around alone and doing so on a contraption which it was feared would cause sexual stimulation.  Because of course we couldn’t have that *eyeroll*. Special seats were even designed to lessen the effect of vibration, and women’s bikes were designed so that the rider would be in an upright position, not leaning forward for ease of speed, lest the women give herself an orgasm on the saddle (no, really).


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompted: 40 - "I don't think he/she would want that for Christmas."

Ogilvy took a sip of his brandy, letting it spread over his tongue with mellow, fragrant heat and traces of caramel and nutmeg.  He glanced towards the door through which Belle had disappeared, and held the image of her in his mind, head turned slightly, eyes flicking across to catch his briefly as she left.  He smiled to himself, his heart slowly shedding itself of grief and anguish as it swelled with his love for her. She seemed a little taken aback by her welcome; he supposed that he and Doc had been somewhat effusive in their greetings, and Alice was - well, Alice - but he hoped that she would soon settle in, that she would feel part of the family.  Doc picked up his own glass, swirling the liquid in it as he stared off into space.

“It’s almost as though no time at all has passed,” he said quietly.  “She looks very well, at least.”

“She’s perfect,” said Ogilvy softly.  “Perfect. Just as she always was.”

“I suspect she thinks we’re all unhinged.”

“Yes.”  He took another sip of brandy.  “We should try to be a little calmer in her presence.  I find I can’t help myself.”

“Indeed,” agreed Doc.  “She’s every bit as intelligent and brave as she ever was.  I was almost bursting with pride when she told me about her experiences at Girton.  I must write to Professor Magus about her; I know the man a little.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.”  Doc took another drink.  “Considered something of an outsider by the elite due to his background, unfortunately, but an excellent fellow.  Very knowledgeable.”

“Good.”

There was silence for a moment.  Ogilvy swirled the brandy in his glass, the bowl cradled in the palm of his hand, inhaling the fragrant scent of it before he took a sip.

“Pity about the stone,” mused Doc.  “It’s clear she doesn’t have it herself, so that’s another dead end we didn’t need.”

“We got her back,” said Ogilvy.  “She’s home. That’s what matters.”

Doc put down his glass and pushed his glasses up his nose with a sigh.

“I’ll try and See something,” he said.  “Perhaps tomorrow.”

“It’s Christmas Eve.” Ogilvy’s tone was dry.  “The children won’t let you have a moment’s peace.”

“Well, that’s true.”  Doc took another drink.  “You’ll have to entertain them, then.”

“Leave it a day or two.  Now she’s back with us, perhaps something will turn up.”  He turned the glass in his hands absently, a faint whiff of brandy reaching his nose.  “Perhaps things will be as they ought to from now on.”

“Perhaps,” said Doc, and licked his lips, eyeing him shrewdly.  “And if not? What if we can’t find the stone?”

Ogilvy hesitated, thumb rubbing over the well-worn gold band of his moonstone ring.

“I - I don’t know,” he admitted.  “Perhaps there’s another way to wake her.  We never had to try before.”

Doc took a sip of brandy, smacking his lips, his expression speculative.

“You could try kissing her,” he suggested, and Ogilvy gave him a flat look.

“When I’m a stranger to her?  Emphasis on strange? She’d slap my face, and rightly so.”

“I didn’t mean right away…”

He sighed wearily, letting his head roll back.

“Let’s get her settled in first, let her grow comfortable here,” he said.  “Perhaps she’ll feel the bond, as you say. Perhaps not.”

It hurt to think that their bond might be broken, but in his heart he didn’t believe it.  He could feel the pull towards her, the physical tug of her soul on his, the overwhelming urge to wrap his arms around her and feel the warmth of her against him.  He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the last time he had held her. The memory led to less pleasant recollections, and he shoved the images away before his mind could bring them into sharp focus, make them real, give them life.  He took a swallow of brandy, the heat in it making his eyes water.

“You should try to talk to her as much as you can,” added Doc.  “If anyone can restore her memories, it’s you. I have a feeling we’re going to need her sooner rather than later.  We only just managed to deal with that fire wraith, remember?”

Ogilvy winced, rubbing at his thigh at the mention of it.  The burn had been excruciating, and the scar would always be with him.

“I don’t want to alarm her by being over-familiar,” he said.  “I think I may already have done so.”

“I’m not suggesting that you confess your eternal love and ask her to marry you immediately,” said Doc dryly. “Just get her - accustomed - to talking with you about everyday things. You have the excuse of checking on the children’s progress, after all.  And I’m sure she’ll want to explore the library.”

“Yes.”  Ogilvy put down his glass, sitting back in his chair.  “We can certainly talk of books. She has an interest in science, so I could show her the telescope.”

“Good.  Good plan.”  Doc ran his hands over his face.  “And on that note, I think we’ve left Alice playing hostess long enough.  Shall we go through?”

* * *

Belle had finished her tea, listening as Alice chattered away about the house, the servants and the surrounding area.

"Of course, you're probably used to dramatic sweeping driveways and enormous gardens," said Alice, having finished talking about the hothouse in which she was attempting to grow flowers. "I'm afraid we're far less grand here."

"Oh, I think it's a beautiful house," said Belle hastily.  "And the park outside is very lovely.  You must show me the hothouse, I'd love to see your flowers."

Alice beamed, evidently pleased with her praise.

"Well, I certainly hope you'll be happy here," she said.  "It's so nice to have another woman in the house.  The servants are dear things, but they tend to treat me like I'm a proper lady, not a guttersnipe in a silk dress."

Belle smiled, and set down her cup.

"Forgive my inquisitive nature, but you must have felt a little out of your depth when you first arrived," she said carefully.  "I was wondering if there was any advice you could give me when it comes to dealing with the children.  I suspect they're in a similar frame of mind."

"Well, they've been here a couple of months now," said Alice.  "But yes, they still have some way to go before they settle down completely. I should think they probably know things you wouldn't expect, and yet won't have the knowledge that children born to this life would have, if you take my point.  I know how that's how things were for me, anyway."

"Yes, I can imagine so," said Belle thoughtfully.  "I'll bear that in mind." 

"Nicholas told me very earnestly that he intended to give Doc the old cat that lives down by the river as a Christmas present," said Alice, shaking her head.  "Covered in fleas it is, and half wild, but it lets Nicholas pet it, so he thinks it's the best cat in the world.  Doubt that Doc would agree - it would probably tear up the couches in the library within a day.  I don't think he would want that for Christmas."

"I imagine not."

"Try to talk Nicholas out of getting the cat, if he mentions it again," she added.  "I think I managed to push his attention onto peppermint creams, but you never know."

Belle bit her lip in amusement, and looked around as the door opened and Ogilvy and the Professor entered. Alice straightened up with a smile.

“Here they are,” she announced.  “Right on time, just as we’ve had the last of the tea.  I could ring for more, if you like.”

“I’m fine, thank you.”  Ogilvy sat in the chair opposite, fingers hitching the knees of his trousers as he lowered himself into the seat.  “I trust you’ve been making Miss Marchland welcome?”

“Of course,” said Alice pertly.  “I’ve been telling her all about your excursions and how you promised to take me with you next time you go.”

Ogilvy sighed a little, sitting back.

“I’m not sure we’ll be going away anytime soon,” he said, and Alice huffed.

“See?” she said, turning to Belle.  “I knew they’d say that!”

“Perhaps in a few months,” added Ogilvy.  “If we’re called away, that is.”

Alice grumbled into her cup, and he turned his head towards Belle.  There was something in his gaze, something that warmed her and made her feel at ease, despite the lingering, wistful sadness in his eyes.  She recalled Ivy saying that he looked as though he had lost someone, and wondered who it had been.

“Miss Marchland, you expressed an interest in seeing my telescope,” he said.  “There’s a little cloud tonight, but not so much that we couldn’t see some of the constellations, I think.  If - if you wanted to look, of course.”

“Oh, I’d be delighted!” she said at once, putting down her cup.

“Alice, would you come too?”

“Yes, alright,” she said, setting her empty cup on the tray and getting to her feet.  “I suppose that would be proper, wouldn’t it?”

Ogilvy’s mouth flattened a little, but he stood, tugging restlessly at the cuffs of his shirt.

“I’ll go to bed, I think,” announced the Professor.  “Bit of a headache.”

“That’ll be the brandy,” said Alice, and swooped in to kiss his cheek as he tutted at her.  “Goodnight!”

Belle said goodnight to the Professor, following Ogilvy and Alice from the room and up the staircase.  They went along the corridor and up another, smaller flight of stairs to where the hallway was narrower, the decor not quite so fine and the gas lamps dimmed.  Ogilvy didn’t seem to mind, leading them along the corridor to yet another set of stairs. The hallway at the top was narrower still, a thin strip of carpet cutting some of the noise of their feet, the floor creaking a little as they walked to the heavy door at the end.  The room beyond was tall and long, with deep red walls and a shining wooden floor. Belle thought they were at the end of the house; the windows opposite jutted out from the rest of the room, forming a crescent. A single lamp on a nearby table gave out a faint glow, and skylights in the ceiling either side of the tall windows let in the pale light of the moon, shining on the largest telescope that Belle had ever seen.  It was a beautiful thing in polished wood and brass, mounted on a heavy stand and pointed upwards at the glass panel of the skylight, and she sucked in a breath.

“Oh!” she whispered.  “Oh my _goodness_!  It’s - it’s _enormous_!”

She rushed forwards excitedly, gazing up the broad, polished length of it, but Alice hesitated.

“Actually, Papa, I think I’ll go to bed,” she said.  “I’m a little tired, but you should show Miss Marchland the stars, since you’re here.”

“Ah.”  Ogilvy glanced at Belle.  “Well. I’m not sure Miss Marchland would be comfortable with that.”

“Oh no, I’d love to,” said Belle, at once.

“See?” said Alice lightly, and kissed Ogilvy on the cheek.  “Goodnight.”

She smiled and ducked her head, walking swiftly from the room, and Belle turned back to the telescope, hearing Ogilvy approach behind her.

“Would you - ah - would you like to take a look?” he asked, and she spun on her toes to face him, clapping her hands together.

“Oh, please!”

He smiled, lifting a hand.

“Allow me.”

Belle stepped out of the way, and he bent to look through the eyepiece, adjusting the angle of the scope with careful fingers.  She watched curiously, noting how precise he was, how measured. She wondered what his interests were beyond astronomy, and made a mental note to ask him.  Alice had told her of his supernatural investigations, and while she retained a high degree of scepticism on such matters, she was intrigued to find out how he viewed such things, given his interest in the sciences.  Perhaps the contents of the library would contain some clues.  She cast her gaze up the length of the telescope again.

“Is it a reflector?” she asked.  “I heard they were using silvered mirrors now that give a much clearer image than the old refractors.”

He straightened up with a tiny smile on his face, and what she thought was a gleam of admiration in his eyes.  It made her belly tighten pleasantly.

“Yes, it is,” he said.  “I used to have one of the old refractor models, but this is much better for viewing distant objects.  Take a look; you should be able to see Orion.”

Belle bent to look through the eyepiece, gasping as the night sky appeared to jump into her vision.  The stars of Orion’s belt made up a bright line, and she could see other points of light scattered around.

“I think that’s Gemini,” she observed, eyeing a constellation to the north east.  “They seem so much closer than I’m used to!  I’ve never seen them like this before.  It must make stargazing such a pleasure.”

“Certainly better than the naked eye,” he agreed, from behind her.

Belle tried to identify some of the other stars that she could see, but was finding it difficult.

“I need to brush up on my constellations,” she said, with a sigh.  “It’s been some time since I read about the stars, and I appear to have forgotten much of what I _did_ read.”

“The library has some excellent resources,” he said.  “I’d be delighted to show you.”

“Thank you.”

There was a moment of silence, and Belle let her gaze roam over the portion of the heavens that the telescope had opened up for her.  The stars gleamed, points of bright bluish-white against the velvet black of the night sky.

“I always felt, when looking at the stars, how insignificant life can be,” she said softly.  “Imagine if the stars could tell what they have seen.  Our lives must seem so short to them.  Like mayflies.  A fragment of time from birth to death, leaving nothing of note behind.”

She heard Ogilvy shift behind her, as though he had moved a little closer.

“I was once told that mortal life was meaningless,” he said.  “That it’s merely a time to suffer through, in the hope of what comes after.  But I don’t believe that.”

Belle straightened up from the telescope, glancing over her shoulder at him.

“Sounds a rather medieval outlook,” she remarked.  “I don’t think I believe it either.  If you’ll pardon the comparison, it sounds very like what Lady Ella told me of marriage.”

Ogilvy smiled at that.

“I believe Lady Ella didn’t have the happiest of marriages,” he said.  “I can understand her bitterness towards the forces that trapped her there.”

“The life of a woman in today’s world seems nothing but duty and forbearance,” she sighed.  “I can’t help wondering if that will ever change.  Or if it was ever different.”

“Long ago, perhaps,” he said.  “And I hope things will change in the future.  In the meantime, we must do what we can to make the best of it.”

“I suppose that’s true,” she said thoughtfully.

“A life filled with love is never wasted,” he added.  “Never meaningless.  Yes, life can be short, and brutal and painful, but it can also be a thing of beauty.  Given the right experiences.”

“You’re a philosopher, Mr Ogilvy,” she teased, and he rolled his eyes a little.

“That’s a complicated way of saying ‘world-weary’,” he said dryly.

“Hmm.”  She pursed her lips, amused.  “A philosopher _and_ a cynic.”

Ogilvy barked a laugh, looking away for a moment.

“Well, I’m certainly cynical, I’ll admit that,” he said.  “And you, Miss Marchland?  No doubt you are eager to see the best in everyone you meet.”

“Well, I try to,” she acknowledged.  “I suspect that makes me naive. You must _despise_ me!”

She grinned at him, and he returned the smile.

“On the contrary, I envy you,” he said.  “I wish I had such faith in my fellow man.  There is nothing poetic about the death of innocence.”

“Change is necessary for growth,” she countered, and his smile grew wistful.

“Perhaps you’re right.”

She turned back to the telescope, bending to look through the eyepiece again, but the clouds had rolled in, hiding the stars from view, and she made a noise of vexation.

“Undone by the weather, it seems,” she remarked.

“There’ll be other nights,” he said.  “May I escort you downstairs?”

She straightened up, turning to him with a smile.

“I suspect I’ll need all my wits to deal with my first day tomorrow,” she said lightly.

“Well, it’ll be Christmas Eve,” he said.  “I suggest you use an hour or two in the morning to get to know the children, then take the rest of the day off.  They’ll be too excited by the thought of decorating the tree to be of much use in the classroom.  They can start their schooling in a few days.”

“Hmm,” said Belle, clasping her hands at her waist.  “Perhaps you should have asked me to start in January. You won’t get much of a bargain by taking me on before Christmas.”

Ogilvy smiled, the light glinting on the lenses of his glasses.

“Not at all,” he said.  “I believe I’m getting everything I could possibly want.”

He gestured to the door, and Belle took a last, long look at the telescope before heading back to the hallway and down the stairs.  Their feet echoed a little on the treads until they reached the first floor, where thick carpet muffled their steps. Belle glanced to the side as they walked, but Ogilvy had his head bent a little, as though he was lost in thought, and they almost passed her room before she realised where she was.

“I’ll bid you goodnight then, sir,” she said.

He glanced up, blinking rapidly before seeming to realise she had stopped a pace or two back from him. Turning slowly on the toes of his shoes, he faced her, fingers unconsciously turning the moonstone ring again.

“There’s no need for such formality,” he said.  “You don’t need to call me ‘sir’.”

Belle swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.

“Then - then what should I call you?” she asked, her heart thumping a little.  “It’s - it’s not as though I’m one of the family.  Sir.”

Ogilvy gazed at her for a moment, then shook his head.

“No,” he said abruptly.  “No, of course not.  Forgive me, I have no desire to make you uncomfortable.  I find - I find some of the rules we have to follow in this age somewhat stifling, at times.”

Belle smiled a little.

“I think Miss Alice would agree,” she said.  “She’s asked me to teach her, nonetheless.”

His mouth twitched, his eyes crinkling a little at the corners.

“Well, I wish you the best of luck with her,” he said, and gestured towards her door.  “Please do ring the bell in your room, and someone will come to help you dress.  Goodnight, Miss Marchland.”

He bowed his head again, and turned sharply on his heel, walking swiftly away.  She watched him go, and he disappeared through a door further along, a sliver of golden light spreading into the hallway before being cut off abruptly by the closing door.  Belle shook her head, reaching for the handle of her own door.  _A very odd family._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About half a dozen anonymous people prompted: "This should help to warm your hands up"

_The furs were soft and warm against her skin despite the cool air, and she wriggled a little, settling back as he bore her down.  Warm light flickered over his body, and the smell of the lamps made from animal grease was strong in her nose. The flames flickered in the depths of his eyes and turned his skin the colour of sunset as he trailed long fingers over her body, tracing the curves of her breasts, her hips.  She could feel him pressed against her thigh, hot and hard and ready, and she reached up to brush the hair back from his face, her thumb stroking over the swell of his lower lip._

_“I love you,” she breathed, and his eyes crinkled as he smiled, his nose nudging hers._

_“I love you too, my beauty.”_

_He reached between them, touching her, stroking her, and she moaned a little, pushing up to feel him against her.  He kissed her softly, tenderly, his breathing hard and uneven, and his eyes were fixed on hers, heavy with devotion and desire._

_“My soul is yours,” he whispered.  “My heart, my love, my life. And all the lives to come.”_

_He bent his head to kiss her, lips soft and wet against hers, and she moaned into his mouth as he pushed slowly inside her._

* * *

Belle awoke with a gasp, heart thumping, eyes wide in the darkness.  For a moment she was disorientated, still half in the dream, but then rough shapes of furniture appeared in the gloom, and she remembered where she was.  The Rose Room, in Mr Ogilvy’s house.

Her skin was tingling, a tightness in her belly, and she pressed her palm against it, the ache between her thighs slowly beginning to fade.  A strange dream, and vivid, even down to scents and tastes. She couldn’t recall having a dream quite like it, and she licked her lips as fragments drifted through her mind.  She remembered how it had felt, how _he_ had felt.  The smoothness of his skin, and the way he felt inside her.  It made her blush to remember, her cheeks burning in the darkness.  She remembered the love in his eyes, the softness of them as he bent his head to kiss her.

The worst of it was, she knew his face.  The lover in her dream was no stranger, no figment of her imagination, but had the face of her new employer.  He had been different in the dream, though. Younger, and thin enough to be almost gaunt, but strong, his arms and chest wrapped in firm ropes of muscle.  His hair had been longer too, hanging around his face and with only the faintest streak of silver at his temples. And yet it was him.  Mr Ogilvy.  Her blush deepened.  Dreaming of the man who had invited her into his home and offered her a respectable position. It was _highly_ inappropriate.  She hoped that she would be able to put the dream from her mind, or facing him at breakfast would be nigh impossible.

The room was cold, the house silent, and she snuggled down in the blankets again, closing her eyes and preparing to drift back into sleep.  A tiny part of her hoped that she would dream of him again.

* * *

Belle felt refreshed when she finally woke, and although she had had a number of strange and confusing dreams, she felt well rested.  A fire had been lit in her room, and it was pleasantly warm, so she splashed water on her face to wake herself up and prepared to dress for the day.  As nice as it had been to play the lady for an evening, she much preferred the freedom to dress herself, and she folded her nightgown, selecting clean stockings and underthings, along with her front-lacing corset, and proceeded to dress herself in front of the standing mirror.

By the time she was dressed and had done her hair, she could hear noises along the floor, the sound of a child calling out, running feet along the hallway.  She looked herself over in the mirror. A plain but well-made charcoal grey tulip skirt swept over her hips and fell to her toes in soft, warm wool. There was a cotton blouse above, sleeves tight at the wrists and wide above the elbows.  It buttoned up to the neck, her mother’s cameo pinned at her throat, and her hair was swept up in a neat bun and pinned in place. She looked clean, neat and competent, and nodded to her reflection in satisfaction.

She made her way down the stairs, hearing the sound of a child’s laughter and a high, piping voice.  Rounding the foot of the staircase, she followed the noise and the delicious scent of savoury food, and entered a room that faced south, the morning sunshine streaming in through the windows.  The room was decorated in a leaf-green wallpaper with a damask pattern of lilies, and Mr Ogilvy was standing by a large sideboard, handing a plate to a young boy and admonishing him not to drip on himself.  A girl with dark blonde curls stood next to him, waiting her turn. The Professor was sitting at an elegant mahogany table, absorbed in the morning newspaper, and Alice sat next to him, tucking into a plate of what looked like kedgeree.

Ogilvy looked across, breaking into a smile as he saw her, his eyes crinkling behind his glasses.  All at once an image from her dream pushed its way into her mind, the memory of his touch, of his kiss, and her eyes widened, a deep blush rising in her cheeks.

“Miss Marchland,” he said pleasantly.  “Good morning to you.”

Belle licked her lips nervously.  

“Good - good morning.”

A rustle of paper to the side made her glance around.  The Professor let the top half of his newspaper fold over, glancing at her over the top of his glasses, and for a brief moment she felt as though he knew exactly what she had been dreaming of.  It made her blush deepen, and he smiled and flipped the paper up once more, hiding his face. Belle closed her eyes momentarily, and when she opened them Ogilvy had turned his attention to the children.

“Ava, Nicholas,” he said.  “This is Miss Marchland. She’s come to teach you both some wonderful things, and I hope you’ll make her welcome.”

Ava and Nicholas had both turned to face her, and were watching with curious, somewhat cautious expressions.  Nicholas was smaller and darker-haired than his sister, and ducked behind her slightly, clutching his plate of food to his midriff.  Ava raised her chin a little, and Belle suspected that she was both the older twin, and took the lead. Belle smiled.

“Good morning, Ava, Nicholas,” she said.  “I’m very pleased to meet you both.”

Alice hissed something under her breath, and Ava quickly bobbed something resembling a curtsy.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss - uh—”  She cut off, mouth opening and closing, and Belle smiled warmly.

“Miss Marchland,” she said gently.  “But that’s a bit of a mouthful, isn’t it?  You may both call me Miss Belle.”

She flicked her eyes up to Ogilvy, hoping he wouldn’t object to the more familiar form of address, but he smiled and nodded approvingly.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Belle,” piped up Nicholas, and she smiled at him.

“I see you have some breakfast there, Nicholas,” she said.  “Don’t let it get cold.”

He beamed at her, lifting his plate, and carried it to the table, where Alice was patting the seat of a chair next to her.  Ava took her own plate from Ogilvy and followed him, watching Belle curiously as she passed. Belle turned back to the sideboard, and Ogilvy selected a plate.  Her blush had mostly faded, but she could feel it wanting to stain her cheeks again, standing this close to him.  She told herself firmly to put the dream from her mind, but it was easier said than done when she could remember fingers stroking against delicate skin and the soft pull of lips against hers.  Her cheeks heated again, and she closed her eyes in frustration.

“I trust you slept well,” he said, making her glance at him again.  “There’s tea, coffee and chocolate on the table. Please, help yourself to whatever you’d like.”

“Thank you.”

He began making his own selection, moving away from her and allowing her to breathe again as she inspected the breakfast foods.  There was a plate of devilled kidneys, glistening in their rich gravy and sending up a delicious scent. There were sausages and bacon, coddled eggs, kippers, and a dish of fragrant kedgeree with pieces of smoked haddock and sliced boiled eggs.  She decided on the kedgeree, and spooned some onto her plate before joining the family at the table. The Professor was still reading, eating a piece of toast with a distracted expression, and Belle poured herself some coffee.

“Well,” said Ogilvy.  “What’s everyone doing today?”

“Oh, we have one or two things planned for this afternoon,” said Alice carelessly.  “Don’t we?”

“We get the Christmas tree!” announced Nicholas excitedly, almost bouncing in his seat.

“I presume Hatter is accompanying you?” said Ogilvy.  “Be sure to use the sled, if you need to. There’s plenty of snow out there, and it would be easier than carrying the thing.”

“I’ll tell him,” said Alice.  “We also have a few presents to arrange, so we might do that first.”

“Can we go to the river?” asked Ava.

“The river?”  Ogilvy looked puzzled.  “If you wish.  Be careful, though.  I don’t want anyone falling in and drowning on Christmas Eve.  Alice, you have charge of them.”

Ava whispered something to Nicholas: Belle caught the word ‘cat’ and a muffled giggle, and she buried her nose in her teacup to hide her smile.  Alice gave them both a flat look, but one that had little heat in it, and she shared a glance with Belle and rolled her eyes in resignation.  Belle suspected that the Professor would be getting a cat for Christmas, after all.  Whether he wanted one or not.

“What about you, Papa?” said Alice.  “Didn’t you say you had some business to attend to in town today?  That should take awhile, don’t you think?”

He eyed her with a hint of suspicion as he plunged a fork into his devilled kidneys, and Alice blinked at him innocently.

“I’ll be out most of this afternoon,” he confirmed.  “But I should be back by dark, and we can put up the tree.”

The children made noises of excitement, exchanging bright-eyed smiles.

“And you, Miss Marchland?” asked Ogilvy.  Belle put down her fork.

“I have a few errands to run,” she said.  “I thought I might do that this afternoon.”

He nodded, pouring coffee.

“We could take a cab, in that case.”

His gaze held hers for a moment, and Belle turned her attention back to her plate, acknowledging the sudden thump of her heart in her chest.  Really, she had to pull herself together. It wasn’t as though she was in love with the man.

* * *

Once breakfast was done, Alice took the two younger children to get ready for their trip to the river.  The house was surprisingly quiet once they had left, and Ogilvy and the Professor were still absorbed in the papers, so Belle bid them good morning and went up to her room.  She used the late morning light shining through the bay window to repair the hem of one of her skirts, her needle flashing in and out in a neat row of tiny stitches. The work was satisfying, and made her think of a possible solution to the problem of her lack of evening wear. Pre-worn dresses were available, if one knew where to go, and she was adept at alterations.

She had already decided to go into town that afternoon in order to purchase some small Christmas gifts for the family, and she resolved to look in some of the places she knew that might have what she sought.  Setting aside the finished skirt, she glanced out of the window. It was a sunny day, if cold, and Belle decided that a walk in the park before her trip into town would do her good.

* * *

Ogilvy finished his paper, folding it and tossing it onto the table, and glanced across at Doc, who was still absorbed in reading.

“I think I’ll go for a walk,” he said.

“You should,” said Doc vaguely.  “It’ll be to your benefit.”

“You mean Belle’s already gone?”  He rolled his eyes in exasperation.  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because now you’ll have to hurry to catch her up, and the exercise will do you good.”

“It wouldn’t hurt you to get some, either.”

Doc sniffed, reaching for his coffee.

“I’d prefer not to intrude, thank you.”

Grumbling under his breath, Ogilvy hurried to put on his boots and coat, dressing himself almost before Hatter could get to him.  His valet was tall and handsome, with a twinkle in his eye that made the kitchen maids giggle, but he was dedicated to his job, and good with the children.

“Take the sled, when you go to fetch the tree,” said Ogilvy.  “And don’t let them talk you into getting something so big it won’t fit in the house.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hatter gave him his scarf, and Ogilvy wound it around his neck.

“Get some more holly and ivy, if they have it,” he added.  “The greenery in the living room is looking a little sad. I’d like some mistletoe, as well, if you can find it.”

“I’ll see what I can do, sir.”

“Good man.”  Ogilvy buttoned his coat and snatched his hat.  “When did Miss Marchland leave?”

“A few minutes ago, sir.”  A tiny smile played on Hatter’s mouth as he handed over the walking cane.  “I thought I saw her head towards the park, though. You should catch her up.”

“Thank you.”

He bolted out of the door, grasping the stair rail before he could fall down the steps, and looked around frantically.  Winter sun sparkled on the fresh snow, and the trees in the park were wreathed in white.  At last he saw her in the distance, walking north along a wide path between the plane trees.  The surface of the snow had thawed a little in the sun and then refrozen to form a crust, and his feet crunched as he hurried after her. Belle looked around at the sound of running feet, her blue eyes wide, and Ogilvy slowed to a brisk walk, his breath steaming in the cold air as he drew close, cane tapping on the frozen ground.

“Miss Marchland,” he said.  “I wondered if I might catch you.  Couldn’t resist the fine weather, I see.”

“Fine, but cold,” she said, with a smile.  “But yes, I thought I’d get some air while I could.  Those clouds at the horizon look like more snow will soon be with us.”

Ogilvy smiled, letting his eyes run over her face, a flush in her pale cheeks from the cold air, her lips a soft, deep pink.   _Gods, she’s beautiful!_  He realised he was staring, and looked away, gesturing to the park.

“I - ah - I usually make a circuit or two each day,” he said.  “Would you allow me to accompany you?”

She smiled back, her eyes warm and inviting.

“With pleasure.”

He offered her his arm, telling himself to stop grinning like a lunatic, and she took it, leather-gloved hand sliding over the thick wool of his coat as they set off, walking in step.

“I - I thought I might take a look in the library this evening,” she said, a little shyly.  “If you have no objection, of course.”

“None at all, you’re welcome to spend as much time as you wish in there.”

She sent him a grateful smile, and they walked on, nodding in greeting to those they passed.

“You must have enjoyed having access to the library at Girton,” he said, and she beamed at him.

“Oh yes!” she said.  “Having said that, I found some of the texts in there _infuriating_.  Very little written by women, of course, and men seeming to have little interest in women beyond their beauty and childbearing abilities.  Oh, apart from making them wholly responsible for society’s moral decline, of course.”

“I fear those views represent the time we live in all too well,” he remarked, and she huffed indignantly.

“Indeed.  It seems to me that the writers fall into two camps.  Those who think women should be cosseted and protected due to their natural weakness and fragility”—the twist to her mouth showed what she thought of that—“and those who think we should be feared.”

“Having spent many tedious evenings in gentlemen’s clubs, that sounds depressingly accurate.”

“I remember surmising that some of these men had never even met an actual woman in their lives,” she mused.  “Having read William Acton’s writings on a woman’s only sexual desire being to please her husband, I was convinced of it.”

Ogilvy barked a laugh, and Belle’s eyes widened.

“Oh!”  She clapped a hand to her mouth, and a blush crept over her cheeks.  “Oh my _goodness_!  Forgive me, sometimes I just say whatever comes into my head.  What _must_ you think of me?”

“I think you take great pleasure in reading,” he said, deeply amused.  “And are adept at critical consideration of the material you choose.”

She still looked mortified, and he tried to think of something to put her at ease.

“I - I must confess that I’ve read Dr Acton’s assertions on the desires of women,” he said, and Belle let her hand drop from her mouth.

“And what was your opinion?” she asked.  Ogilvy smiled.

“I felt nothing but compassion for his poor wife,” he said, and she giggled, looking scandalised, and still blushing.

They strolled on a little further in companionable silence, Belle’s hand resting lightly on his forearm.  She glanced up at him, her eyes the same clear blue as the sky.

“Was there ever a Mrs Ogilvy?” she asked, and he smiled faintly.

“No,” he said.  “I - I was waiting for the right woman.”

“Waiting a long time, it seems,” she said, her voice lightly teasing, and he felt his smile grow wistful.

“Longer than you can imagine.”

They walked on, feet crunching on the frosted leaves, and he glanced across at her.  A wisp of hair had worked itself loose from the pins beneath her hat, and was curled against her cheek just by her ear.  He resisted the urge to reach out and brush it back.

“And you?” he asked.  “Did you ever give any thought to marriage?  Notwithstanding Dr Acton’s views on the duty and lack of pleasure it promised?”

Belle’s mouth twisted wryly.

“Quite frankly, Mr Ogilvy, the only thoughts I gave to marriage were how much I wanted to avoid it,” she said dryly.  “My father was keen, of course. If I had married well, it may have kept him in a little more comfort. Of course he may simply have gambled the house out from under us.”

She closed her eyes, lips pressing together as though she were impatient with herself, and he hid a smile, guessing that she was telling herself to think before she spoke.  Her brief mention of her family intrigued him.

“So there was no one?” he asked, and she glanced at him, a smile brightening her eyes.

“Oh, there was many a young man who liked the idea of a pretty young wife,” she said.  “Unfortunately they were far less keen on that wife getting a university education. Well, I couldn’t have that, now, could I?”

He chuckled.

“I must apologise for my sex, Miss Marchland,” he said.  “I’m afraid too many of us are witless fools when it comes to women.”

“I would hope you would not object to a young woman improving herself.”

“Indeed not, I encourage it,” he said.  “I agree that women should be able to vote, for example.”

Belle stopped abruptly, turning a little to face him.

“Really?”

“Yes,” he said honestly.

Her face lit up, a bright smile spreading across it, and it was as though the summer sun had returned, bathing him in warmth and light.  He felt his heart swell with the joy of being beside her, and let himself smile in return, losing himself in the depths of her eyes for a single, wonderful moment.  Belle blinked, breaking the spell, and he cleared his throat, gesturing to the path in front of them.

“Perhaps we should keep moving,” he said.  “It’s a little too cold to be standing around.”

“Yes.”

They walked on, and he tried to think of another topic of conversation that would help him to know her background a little better, to explain why he and Doc had never been able to find her.  It was strange; in every life before this she had outranked him, and he had had to work his way up through sheer determination, ruthlessness and dumb luck. And yet now he was the one with wealth and power, and she dependent on his generosity.  He wasn’t especially comfortable with the change in their relative situations.

“If you’ll pardon me for asking,” he said.  “Where were you raised? I detect a hint of an accent that I can’t quite place.”

“Hmm.”  She looked amused.  “My own governess would be terribly disappointed that I never fully shed that.  I was raised in Sydney, in Australia.”

“Ah!”  He smiled.  “Yes, of course.”

“My mother’s family was amongst the wealthiest,” she added.  “I’m sorry to say that their wealth did not survive my parents’ marriage.  My father was inclined to make - ill-advised investments.”

“The stock market can be a volatile thing,” he said diplomatically, and she sighed.

“Especially when one believes in one’s friends wholeheartedly and refuses to follow professional advice,” she said, and there was a bitterness in her voice.  “Anyway, the result of his actions was the ruin of the family. I suppose at least my mother didn’t live to see it.”

“I’m extremely sorry to hear of it,” he said sincerely, and she gave him a grateful nod.

“Fortunately, I had a maiden aunt who was willing to pay for my passage to England, and for my college education,” she said.  “I’ll forever be grateful for that. I may have had to make my own way in the world, but I’m by no means helpless because of it.”

“I should never suggest otherwise,” he said, and she glanced up at him.

“What is your own tale?”

Ogilvy smiled ruefully.

“I’m afraid it’s the opposite of yours,” he said.  “An upstart orphan child born in the gutter with no friends or family to speak of.  Then Doc found me and took me in and ensured I used my wits for legitimate means.”

“I see,” she said, although she looked puzzled.  It made him smile.

“Our initial encounter was something like my own with Alice,” he explained.  “No doubt she’s told you of it.”

She grinned, a mischievous light in her eyes.

“She mentioned trying to pick your pocket.”

“Indeed.  I’m ashamed to say that at five years old I had already embarked on a glorious life of petty crime,” he said, making her giggle.  “Fortunately my last victim was inclined to be kind rather than to uphold the law.”

“What happened then?”

“Once I’d finished my schooling, I started out in the wool trade,” he said.  “I have an interest in textiles, and I’m not ashamed to say I have an eye for quality.  At first I sold only in the local area, and then I expanded by buying out nearby competitors.  Around fifteen years ago I branched out into shipping, which is lucrative enough to keep us all in comfort.”

Belle sighed, gazing off into the distance as she compared his tale to her own.  _Opposites indeed._

“And so fortunes rise and fall,” she said.  “Life is strange.”

The wind picked up a little, and she shivered, nestling instinctively against his side.  Ogilvy glanced down at her.

“Cold?” he asked.  “The wind is bitter.”

Belle nodded, realising that she was tucked a little too close against him, and straightening up.

“My gloves are not the warmest,” she said ruefully.  “My fingers feel like icicles.”

Ogilvy’s smile widened a little, and he drew to a stop, letting her arm slip from his as he turned to face her.

“Here,” he said gently, tugging the scarf from around his neck.  “This should help to warm your hands up.”

He took her hands in his, wrapping the woollen scarf around them carefully, like a muff.  It was still warm from the heat of his neck and chest, and when she lifted her hands she could catch the faint scent of him, a comforting, masculine, oddly familiar smell.  She glanced up at him, and he was watching her with that soft look in his eyes again, as though he could barely believe she was real. She wished she knew what it meant.

“I don’t want you to catch cold,” she said, and he shook his head.

“Your comfort is more important than mine,” he said, and gestured ahead of them.  “Shall we go on? I fear the bad weather is trying to catch us, but the path will circle back to the house before the snow comes.”

His warmth was seeping into her hands, spreading through her body, and Belle smiled, nodding her agreement.  She took his arm again, slipping her hand back into the cocoon of soft wool, and they continued their walk in comfortable silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Note:
> 
> Dr William Acton was a prominent gynaecologist in the 19th century whose word was accepted as the authority on many women's issues. Acton claimed that: "The majority of women (happily for them) are not very much troubled with sexual feeling of any kind...As a general rule, a modest woman seldom desires any sexual gratification for herself. She submits to her husband's embraces, but principally to gratify him; and, were it not for the desire of maternity, would far rather be relieved from his attentions." He acknowledged that a small percentage of "normal" women felt sexual desire when they menstruated, but largely described sexual desire in women as a symptom of nymphomania
> 
> I imagine Belle was unimpressed


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompted: "Why does it look like it snowed in here?"
> 
> This chapter has a small reminder of one of Ogilvy's previous lives as covered in TLG :)

By the time they got back to the house, the clouds had covered the sun, and the first flakes of snow were beginning to fall.  Mrs Wolfe remarked over the weather as she took his coat, and Ogilvy could see Belle shiver a little as she took off her boots.

“There’s a fire lit in the library, sir,” said Mrs Wolfe.  “Shall I have some tea brought through?”

“Thank you.  Where’s Alice?”

She hesitated before answering.

“I believe she’s in the kitchen, sir.”

“In the kitchen?” he said, bewildered.  “What, did she decide to learn to cook?”

“I don’t believe so, sir.”

She didn’t elaborate, and he shook his head.

“Well, I wanted a word with Mrs Potts, anyway,” he said.  “Don’t worry about the tea, I can tell her myself.”

He nodded to Belle, who had taken off her hat and was patting her hair back into place, and headed to the kitchen, whereupon he stopped, frowning.  White powder covered the table and most of the floor, and Alice looked as though she had been buried in it up to her elbows. She was gazing at him with a stricken look on her face and a white smudge on her nose, her curls held back off her face with one of the kitchen maids’ caps. There was a sharp scent of vinegar in the air, which Mrs Potts often used to clean things, and Ogilvy shook his head at the devastation.

“Why does it look like it snowed in here?” he asked.

“Oh!”  Alice looked vexed, dusting powder from her hands as she hurried over.  “You weren’t supposed to come in here! I’m helping the children to make sweets.  Which you don’t know about.”

“And the children are where, exactly?”

Alice hesitated.  There was a loud, protracted yowl from the scullery, and Ogilvy frowned.

“What on earth was that?”

“That was Ivy,” said Alice, after a pause.  “She burned her arm on an iron. Mrs Potts is tending to it.”

“Sounded like a cat.”

“Yeah, we keep telling her that,” said Alice, unconcerned.

_“Bloody fleas!”_

Mrs Potts’ aggrieved tone floated out from the scullery, and Ogilvy frowned as Alice sent him a disarming smile.

“Papa, wouldn’t you like some tea?” she asked sweetly.  “Why don’t you go and sit in the library and I’ll get Ivy to bring some out?”

“Well, as long as her arm’s alright,” he said, deciding that whatever secrets she was keeping, he didn’t especially want to know.  “Yes to the tea. I think Miss Marchland might join me. Where’s Doc?”

“Lying down in his room, I think,” she said.  “He said he had one of his headaches.”

There was another plaintive yowl from the scullery, and Alice’s eyes grew wide with feigned innocence.

“Right.”  Ogilvy shook his head.  “Please tell Mrs Potts that she can serve supper at seven this evening.  And remind her that we’re not expecting anything extravagant, just an informal meal.  She has enough to cope with preparing tomorrow’s dinner, and I’m sure they all want to go to church in the morning.”

“Can I go?” asked Alice.  “I thought I’d take the children.”

“You may go if you wish.”

“I’ll ask Miss Marchland if she wants to go.”  Alice hesitated. “Papa, do you think I might call her Belle?  I hate that we have to be so formal all the time.”

He hesitated.

“I think that would be up to her,” he said.  “She may not be comfortable with it, especially at this early stage.”

“I suppose.”  She looked disgruntled.  “She’s agreed to teach me etiquette.  I promise to try to learn all these silly rules, I don’t want to embarrass you in front of your fancy friends and acquaintances.”

“You could never do that,” he assured her.

“That sounds like a challenge,” she said pertly, and he grinned.

“The tea, then,” he said.  “And then you should all get cleaned up and see about getting that tree.  The snow’s coming down again and I don’t want poor Hatter to be dragging the thing back through drifts.”

“Alright.”

Ogilvy nodded, giving her one last, suspicious look before heading to the library.  Belle was already in there, gazing up at one of the shelves, a finger running along the spines of the novels that he kept there, and he stopped in the doorway, smiling as he watched her.  Light coming from the tall window highlighted her form, the curves of her figure in its neat blouse and skirt and the pale smoothness of her skin. Dust motes danced in the air, drifting like tiny sparks as her fingers bounced from one book to the next, her eyes scanning the titles on the spines.  She selected a book, pulling it from the shelf with the tip of a finger, and opened it up, gazing avidly at the pages. That lone strand of chestnut hair was still curled by her ear, and he wanted to walk up behind her and place a kiss there, to press his lips to the soft skin of her neck and breathe her in.  He pushed the feeling away, fearful that it would show in his face, in his eyes. Impossible as it was to completely hide his feelings, the last thing he wanted to do was make her uncomfortable.

Shaking his head, he pushed away from the doorway and made his entrance.  The fire was sending out a pleasant heat, almost too hot for the three-piece suit he was wearing, and Belle looked around with a smile as he approached her.  She slid the book back onto the shelf, turning to face him and folding her hands at her waist.

“I see you’ve found the novels,” he said.  “I swear there is _some_ logic to the way in which the library is arranged, but sometimes it feels as though I’ve forgotten what that is.”

She giggled a little, a wry lift of one brow suggesting that she agreed with him.

“Then perhaps you ought to be my guide,” she suggested.

“With pleasure.”  He gestured to the shelves in front of her.  “As you’ve seen, the majority of novels can be found here.  There are children’s books in the little alcove next to us.”  He walked on, hearing her follow him with a rustle of skirts. “The two stacks here mainly contain volumes on history and politics.”

“I noticed the encyclopedias on the bottom shelves.”

“Yes, the set should be full.  Alice has a tendency to take one from time to time, and doesn’t always return them, so if one’s missing, just ask her.”  He walked on. “Classics are here. Atlases and natural history here. And over here we have the shelves devoted to scientific works.  I’ve tried to group them into subjects as much as I can but there’s some overlap, as you might expect. The astronomy texts are on the right hand side.”

Belle had stepped forward, bending at the knees to look them over.

“I shall have to study a map of the heavens before I use the telescope again,” she said.  “Perhaps you can test my recollection the next time the skies clear enough for us to look at the stars.”

He smiled at her enthusiasm.

“I’ve no doubt you’re an excellent scholar, Miss Marchland.”

“We shall see,” she said, straightening up.  “What’s through here?”

She had walked on ahead, around the corner that led to his study, and as he followed her she stopped in the doorway, making him step back before he could bump into her.

“That’s my study,” he explained.  “I really only use it for my business papers, or to think; the light in the main library is better so I tend to sit in there if reading anything substantial.”

“There’s a - a spinning wheel here,” she observed, sounding confused, and he smiled.

“Yes, it’s mine.”

Belle turned on her toes to face him, looking puzzled.

“Yours?” she said.  “You can spin?”

“Yes.”  He moved past her, rounding the spinning wheel and reaching up to trace the sweeping curve of it with the tips of his fingers.  “A - a hobby only.”

“A most unusual one,” she observed, and he smiled, eyes meeting hers.

“It’s not exactly something I share with those outside the family,” he said.  “They already think me somewhat eccentric.”

“Well, I must confess that when you said you had an interest in textiles, this wasn’t my first thought,” she remarked, and he smiled again.

“Something I learned as a child north of the border,” he said.  “I suppose it kept me out of mischief in those early years.”

“A useful skill, though,” she said.  “I had to learn piano. At least this has some practical application.”

“The pursuit of beauty is never time wasted,” he said, and Belle pursed her lips, looking amused.

“You haven’t heard me play,” she said teasingly, eyes gleaming.

“No, but perhaps you’d favour us with your talents this evening,” he said, and she smiled.

“I’d be delighted, but I warn you, I have no true talent.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“It takes a great deal of practice and self-discipline,” she said.  “Unfortunately I always much preferred to be reading.”

She took a step closer, reaching out to touch the spinning wheel, her hand a fraction of an inch from his.  Fingertips traced delicately over the smooth wood, and her eyes flicked up to meet his gaze, clear blue pools ringed with dark lashes.

“Why do you spin?” she asked.

Her voice had lowered a little, its tone almost hushed, as though they were speaking of something secret.  Ogilvy traced the edge of the wheel with his fingertip, flashes of his past rippling through his mind, love and loss, joy and anguish.

“I like to watch the wheel,” he said quietly.  “Helps me remember.”

“Remember what?” she asked curiously, and he sighed.

“The things I need to be thankful for,” he said.  “And that no matter how dark life may seem, there is always the certainty of light returning, of a new dawn.”

“That seems a fine thing to remember,” she said softly, and he smiled a little.

“There’s a comfort in the repetitive motion, in the rhythmic turning of the wheel,” he said.  “I suppose it’s almost a meditative state.”

“I can understand that, I think.”

“I use it when I’m being particularly melancholy and irritating,” he added, and Belle giggled.

“Then if I ever see you using it, I’ll know not to disturb you.”

“No, please do,” he said quickly.  “Sometimes I let myself dwell on things I have no control over.  It’s annoyingly self-indulgent and I wholeheartedly give you permission to interrupt.”

Belle opened her mouth, but the sound of china clinking made them look back towards the fire.

“Ah, that sounds as though our tea is here,” he said, gesturing.  “Shall we?”

She smiled, ducking her head, and he followed her out to the library, where Ivy was setting a tray of tea things on the little table near the fire.

“Thank you, Ivy,” he said.  “I see Mrs Potts has made some of her excellent almond tarts.  Delicious.”

“Yes, sir.”  She set the dish of tarts next to the teapot and straightened up.  “Will there be anything else, sir?”

“How is your arm?” he asked, and she frowned.

“My arm, sir?”

“Miss Alice said you burned yourself,” he prompted.

Ivy opened and closed her mouth, looking confused.

“Yes, sir.  I’m well, sir, thank you.”

“Good.”  Ogilvy decided not to bother thinking about what Alice was really up to.  “Well, thank you, Ivy. That’ll be all.”

“Yes, sir.”

She hurried off, and Belle took a seat, smoothing her skirt over her knees.

“Is the Professor joining us?” she asked, and he shook his head.

“Alice said that he was complaining of a headache and has gone to lie down.”

“Oh, I am sorry.”

“He has a tendency to suffer from them, every now and then,” said Ogilvy, reaching out to pour the tea.  “He’ll be well by this evening, I’m sure of it.” _And he may have some information.  That would be a relief._

He handed her a cup, and she nodded her thanks and added milk, accepting an almond tart from him.  Ogilvy poured his own tea and sat back in his chair.

“You mentioned that you wanted to take a trip into town,” he said.  “I need to go myself, so I thought we might take a cab, if you’ve no objection.”

Belle took a sip of her tea, setting the cup back in its saucer.

“Thank you, that would save me a walk.”

He took a bite of the tart, rich, buttery pastry and soft, chewy ground almond filling above Mrs Potts’ homemade raspberry jam.  Belle was tasting her own, and nodded approval. He dashed crumbs from his fingertips, picking up his cup.

“I have a few business matters to attend to in town,” he said.  “If you have an idea of how long you might be, we could arrange to meet to travel back.”

“Well, there’s a haberdasher’s I wish to visit, and a few other places,” she said.  “I should think a little over two hours in total.”

He nodded.

“Very well.  I’ll get Hatter to hail a cab once we’re ready.”

* * *

The trip into town took a little longer than she had expected, as the streets were crowded with hansom cabs and omnibuses, their occupants purchasing Christmas gifts, food and wine.  There were even motor cars on the streets, more than she could remember seeing, and it all made for something of a slow procession. Eventually the cab let them down outside the cathedral, and Ogilvy helped her out with a firm grip on her gloved hand.  Belle shook out her skirts, brushing them off, and thanked him. The air was bitingly cold, the wind whistling down the street and making her shiver, and Ogilvy gestured ahead of them.

“If you need me to accompany you, I’m more than willing,” he offered.

“Oh no,” she said quickly.  “You’re very kind, but it’s not necessary.  I don’t have far to go, and you have your own business to attend to.”

“Indeed.”  He glanced around.  “Well, shall we meet back here at three-thirty?  That should get us back to the house in time for tea.”

She agreed readily, and he touched his hat to her, giving her a tiny bow before making his way across the street.  Belle went in the opposite direction, away from the more affluent part of town and into one that was still respectable, if somewhat more suited to her pocket.  She found the shop she was looking for easily; she had bought pre-worn items from the shopkeeper in the past, and Miss Darling always had excellent suggestions on how an item might be adjusted in the easiest or most flattering way.

Lady Ella had given her a generous severance payment, and as she had found work so quickly, and therefore had no need to live off the money, she saw no harm in spending some of it.  She purchased three dresses, along with some cheaper blouses and skirts for day wear, and arranged to have them sent to the house. She then went to the haberdashers for the purchase of ribbons, lace trimming and buttons, tucking the packages into her bag.  Christmas gifts were next on her list. It wasn’t proper to buy anything for her employers, as much as she might want to, and so she limited herself to buying something for each of the children, and small gifts of sweets, soap and handkerchiefs for the servants.

The snow was falling faster as she made her way back to the cathedral, and to her relief Ogilvy was already waiting for her, a tiny smile making his mouth quirk when he saw her moving through the crowd.  He stepped forward, reaching out to take the packages tucked under her arm.

“Excellent timing,” he said.  “Do you have everything you need?”

“I think so,” she said.  “Just in time, too, from the look of the weather.”

“Indeed.”

He stepped forward to hail a passing cab, taking her gloved hand to help her inside before giving the driver directions and climbing in after her.  She took her packages from him, setting them on the seat beside her, and the cab set off with a jolt. Belle shivered a little, rearranging her skirts and smoothing them over her knees, pleased to be out of the cold wind.  Ogilvy sat opposite, taking off his glasses and cleaning them with his handkerchief before putting them back on. He glanced across at her as the cab moved slowly along.

“Town was busy today.”

“Yes,” she agreed.  “It seems to get busier every year.”

“Did you spend much time here when you were in Lady Ella’s household?”

“Only during the season, really,” she said.  “And really only in the last year or two, before Lady Aurora came out.  She enjoys the parties, but gets a little fatigued by the end of July. We always headed back to Furton Grange before the grouse shoot.”

“Having attended many of those society gatherings I can understand her desire to leave,” he remarked, and she tilted her head a little, curious.

“Well, I never attended myself, of course,” she said.  “I’d hear all about it the next day. I - I wouldn’t have thought it was the sort of thing you would enjoy, if you’ll pardon me for saying so.”

He looked amused, his eyes glinting.

“Indeed not, but they serve their purpose,” he said.  “Allows one to see and be seen in the right places, as it were.  A tedious, but necessary inconvenience. Champagne helps.”

Belle giggled.

“That can be true of many things, I’m told.”

“When things are really dire I recommend whisky,” he said, and she bit her lip, amused.

The cab rattled on, the traffic easing somewhat as they cleared the main streets, and Belle shifted on the seat a little.  The cushions could use more padding, and she was thankful they didn’t have far to travel.

“I suspect Lady Ella misses her daughter,” said Ogilvy.  “Lord Deville spent most of his time in Italy, as I understand it, and Lady Aurora always was a comfort to her mother.”

“Her Ladyship has a new companion, a Miss Ursula Waters,” said Belle.  “They seem to get along very well.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

The cab jounced from side to side a little as it turned a corner, and Belle squeaked, grabbing for one of her packages as it tumbled from the seat.  Ogilvy caught it first with an outstretched hand, and she almost fell into his lap as she overbalanced. She found herself gazing into his eyes, the concern in them making her breath catch and her heart thump.

“Oh my goodness, I’m sorry!” she gasped, putting a hand on his knee to push herself upright, and flinching back as though she had been burned.  “I’m so sorry!”

“It’s quite alright,” he assured her, taking her hand to give her some support as she sat back.  “These roads get worse every year. Are you well?”

Belle nodded, blushing a little as she took the parcel from him, and he glanced out of the window, giving her time to compose herself.  She felt her blush fade as she studied him. The silver hairs at his temples shone in the light, and the fine lines around his eyes gave him an expression of weary resignation.  She wondered what it was that had made him unhappy in life. Ivy had said he looked as though he had lost someone, and she thought she could see it now. Not a wife, though, for he had told her he had never married.  She found herself curious to know more about him, to know everything about this strange little family.

Ogilvy glanced around, smiling as he caught her eye, and his expression changed entirely to that of a man who couldn’t quite believe his luck.  It was strange indeed, and she was curious as to what it might mean. He sat back in his chair, nodding towards the window.

“We’re here,” he said.  “Time to see if Hatter let the children bully him into getting a twelve-foot monster or whether he stood firm.”

Belle returned his smile, and the cab drew to a halt.  Ogilvy got out first, reaching up to help her down as Hatter trotted down the front steps.  He paid the driver, giving him a curt nod, and the cab pulled away, Ogilvy offering his arm to Belle for support as they mounted the steps.  Hatter followed them into the house, closing the door behind them, and Belle set down her parcels and took off her hat, coat and boots, sighing in relief as the warmth of the house seeped into her.  Hatter had Ogilvy’s coat, and was handed his hat, gloves and scarf in turn.

“How went the tree-purchasing expedition?” asked Ogilvy, and Hatter let out a grumbling breath.

“I managed to restrain the excitement of my young charges, sir,” he said gravely.  “The tree will fit in the living room with a little room to spare.”

“Excellent.”  Ogilvy showed his teeth.  “And the greenery?”

“It’s all awaiting your attention, sir,” he said.  “Miss Alice has distracted Miss Ava and Master Nicholas with a book, but I think they’re desperate to start hanging ornaments.”

“We’ll have tea first, I think,” he said, running a hand through his hair.  “When it’s dark we can decorate the tree and light the candles.”

“I’ll inform Mrs Potts that you’re ready, sir.”

“Good.  Miss Marchland?”  He turned back to her with a warm smile.  “Welcome to what I hope will be the first of many celebrations with this family.”

She returned his smile, following as he led her through to the living room. _I hope so, too._


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last time, Belle and Ogilvy returned to the house in time to begin the Christmas Eve celebrations. Here's what happened next.

The excitement of the twins was almost palpable by the time that the tea was drunk and sandwiches eaten, and Ogilvy wondered if they would actually sleep that night.  Doc shuffled into the room as they were on their second cup of tea, and Alice bounced up to him and led him to his favourite chair, fussing over him in a way that made Ogilvy grin.  Doc tried to wave her off, insisting that his headache was gone and he was fine, but he caught Ogilvy’s eye for a moment, making his breath catch. He had Seen something.

Once Ivy had cleared away the tea things, Ogilvy encouraged the twins to start hanging red silk bows and angels made from paper cones and goose feathers, which Hatter brought into the room in boxes, the ornaments wrapped in tissue paper.  Alice told Belle proudly that most had been made by her in previous years, and that the twins had made the paper chains that wrapped around the tree and were tucked out of the way of the candles clipped to each branch. Belle volunteered to help adorn the tree, handing each item to one of the twins to find a spare bough while Ogilvy and Doc refreshed the greenery that draped across the mantelpiece and hung above the windows.

“What is it?” asked Ogilvy quietly, tucking a strand of ivy around the base of a silver candlestick, and Doc sighed.

“We need to head north,” he said simply.  “I’m not saying that it’ll be the answer to everything, but it’s a step in the right direction.  I sense something - momentous.”

“Something’s better than the nothing we’ve managed to find for years,” said Ogilvy dryly.  “Perhaps now she’s back with us, things will be easier.”

“Yes.”  Doc allowed himself a tiny smile.  “Perhaps she’s guiding us, in her own way.”

Ogilvy threaded fragrant stems of rosemary in amongst the glossy green holly leaves, glancing across at where Belle was on tiptoes, handing a gilded pine cone to Ava to hang on the tree and admonishing her to be careful as Ava stretched up on the stepladder.  Something tugged at his mind, a whisper of a memory, and he felt his heart clench a little. He turned back to Doc.

“When you say we have to head north,” he said softly.  “Where do you mean?”

“You know where.”

Doc’s eyes were filled with compassion, but there was a grim resignation there too, and Ogilvy sighed, his shoulders slumping a little as he nodded.

“Back to where it ended,” he whispered, letting the mantelpiece take his weight for a moment.  “Of course.”

Doc patted his shoulder, his hand a comforting warmth.

“Don’t think about it now,” he said gently.  “We’ll worry about it after Christmas, hmm?”

Ogilvy nodded, pushing his glasses up his nose and reaching for the next bunch of holly.  They could worry about it later.

Wreaths of dark green holly with bright red berries, ropes of trailing ivy and bushy crowns of mistletoe soon adorned the room, and the scent of fresh greenery and candle wax filled Ogilvy’s nose.  He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the sensations to wash over him: the sound of children’s laughter and Belle’s soothing voice, the sharp scents of pine and rosemary and a hint of smoke from the fire.  For a few precious moments he let his mind drift back to the past, his mouth twitching into a smile as a memory formed. A squeal from Ava made him jump, his eyes flicking open as he was dragged back to the present.

There was a little squabbling over who got to place the final decoration.  It was a tiny doll which had belonged to Alice, now dressed in a rough-hewn gown of gold-coloured gauze, wings of painted silk stretched across a frame of thin wire.

“She’s a fairy!” marvelled Ava.

“No, she’s an angel!” insisted Nicholas.

“Angels have _feathers_ on their wings!” said his sister witheringly.  “She’s a fairy, and I guessed right, so I get to put her on top of the tree!”

“That’s not fair!”

“How about you _both_ put her up there?” suggested Hatter.

He scooped them up, one in each arm, and carried them to the stepladder so they could stretch up and set the fairy on the top.  Ava clapped her hands and kissed him on the cheek, which made him grin. Hatter had a soft spot for children.

“Now we can light the candles,” said Alice, helping the twins to get down.  “Hatter, be a dear, would you?”

“Of course, Miss.”

Ogilvy smiled, watching as Hatter took a lighted taper in one gloved hand and began the process of lighting each of the little candles.  The children watched with wide eyes as the room filled with light, and Alice bounced on her toes, clapping her hands as the final candle was lit.

“Oh!  It looks so beautiful!” she said happily, and twirled, blonde curls flying outward.

“Well, mind you don’t set yourself on fire,” chided Doc, tugging her away from the tree.  “And that goes for you two, as well. The tree is for looking at, not for touching.”

“Yes, sir,” the twins said in unison, standing very stiffly with their hands folded in front of them, and Doc sighed.

“It doesn’t mean you can’t play in here,” he said gently.  “Just be careful.”

The faint sound of music and singing caught Ogilvy’s ear, and he glanced at Hatter, who was frowning slightly as he looked out of the window.

“Carollers?” asked Ogilvy.

“I believe so, sir.”

“Oh!”  Alice raced to the window.  “Oh, look! Papa, may we let them in?  We could have a dance! The living room’s large enough, if we keep the doors to the hallway open and move the chairs back.”

“Very well.”  He couldn’t help smiling at her eager expression.  “Hatter, would you bring me a bottle of mead when you’ve let them in?  Alice, go and tell Mrs Potts to make up a bowl of spiced cider, and warm some of the mince pies.  And tell the servants they can come up and listen, too.”

Alice was gone in a flash, overtaking Hatter and calling out excitedly as she headed for the kitchen.  Ogilvy pushed the chairs back closer to the walls to free up more of the floor, and within minutes a small group of carollers had entered the living room, pink-cheeked with the cold and bringing the scent of snow with them. One man carried a fiddle, two had pipes and one a small drum, and they offered bows and curtsies and touched their hats as Christmas greetings were exchanged. Alice raced back into the room, breathing heavily, her eyes bright with excitement.

“Oh, do please play!” she said eagerly.

The group struck up a rousing rendition of _Good King Wenceslas_ , the musicians playing along with enthusiasm. Alice grabbed the hands of the twins and proceeded to dance with them in a circle, and Ogilvy smiled as Belle joined him by the window, brushing pine needles from her skirts.

“I hope they can sleep after all this excitement,” she remarked, eyes sparkling, and he grinned.

“I was thinking the same,” he admitted.  “I’m hoping warm milk and a story will do the trick.”

“Or perhaps Miss Alice will simply wear them out.”

“Perhaps.”

They watched the children dancing, their movements more of a joyful romp than anything coordinated, Ava giggling as they twirled in a circle.  Out of the corner of his eye, Ogilvy saw the kitchen maids peering in through the door, nudging one another and whispering. He beckoned to them, and after some hesitation they entered, pressing themselves back against the wall as though the room was off limits.  Which he supposed it would be, in any normal household. Mrs Wolfe entered with Ivy in her wake, her mouth thinning at the breach of propriety, and Ogilvy wanted to roll his eyes.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” he said, as the carollers finished their song.  “I’d very much like it if this whole household made merry. We have a lot to be thankful for, so enjoy the music, and dance as much or as little as you would like, either in here, or out in the hallway if that would be preferable to you.  It’s only one night.”

That last line was directed at Mrs Wolfe, and after a moment she nodded acceptance with a tiny smile, which made him want to grin.  Hatter sidled back into the room, a cut-glass jug of hot mead steaming on a silver tray with three glasses beside it, and he set it on the little side table near Doc’s chair.  Ogilvy went to pour a measure into each, the mead hot and fragrant, and handed a glass to Belle. She took it curiously, taking a sniff.

“It smells delicious,” she said.

“Mead,” he explained.  “I have a case sent up from Dorset every year.  Just the thing on a winter’s evening.”

Belle took a sip, eyes widening at the taste.  It was strong and sweet, fragrant with honey and heather, and it warmed her as it slipped down her throat.  The flavour was rich and heady and indulgent, and oddly familiar, even though she was sure the drink was new to her.  It made her thoughts stray to places they had never been: dancing barefoot in wet grass, laughing up at the moon, the sound of distant music in her ears and her lips bruised with frantic kisses.  For a moment the pictures conjured up by her imagination almost seemed like memories, and she blushed, trying to push the images from her mind. Her lips tingled as if in memory of the kisses, and she half-expected to feel the hem of her skirt heavy and damp with dew.

“How do you like it?”

Ogilvy’s low voice made her start, and she looked up, her blush deepening.  Dark eyes watched her intently from behind the thin lenses of his glasses, and her heart thumped in her chest, her breath quickening.  She took another sip of mead to calm herself, and nodded to him as she lowered the glass.

“It’s delicious,” she said.  “It feels - it’s almost as though I remember having it before, but I’m sure that’s not the case.”

Ogilvy smiled at her, and raised his own glass.

“Merry Christmas, Miss Marchland,” he said, and took a drink.

The fiddler started playing _I Saw Three Ships_ , and as the singers and musicians joined in, Alice released Ava and Nicholas and went to pull Ivy in for an exuberant jig.  Her actions seemed to encourage the others, and soon Hatter was whirling one of the maids around in the hallway with what looked like practised efficiency while the others clapped along to the tune.  Belle tapped her foot, sipping at her mead as she watched them, and as the song ended the Professor trotted over, bowing to her as he offered his hand. She smiled as she curtsied, setting aside her glass of mead and joining him beside Alice, Ivy and the twins to make up a set.

The fiddle bayed, the singers launching into _Here We Come A-Wassailing_ , and Belle stepped forward to take the Professor's hands as they danced down the set and parted to wind around the others back to the top.  The servants in the hall had made up their own set, clapping in time as each pair danced, and Belle wanted to laugh for the joy of it as she took the Professor’s hands again.  There was something untamed about it, something wild and ancient and pagan, as though in that moment, with the dance and the music, with the scent of pine boughs and the heat of the flames and the taste of honey in her mouth, she was connected to those that had gone before.

Ogilvy sipped at his mead, watching Belle and Doc clasp hands and skip through the dance to the sound of shrill pipes and clapping hands.  It made his heart ache, but it was a pleasant, nostalgic feeling. Having her back in their lives was exquisite, being unable to touch her with affection the sweetest torture.  Perhaps Doc was right. Perhaps their future lay in the North.

The song ended, and the dancers clapped their appreciation.  Belle took a step back, pressing a hand to her side as if winded, and Doc took her hand and led her over to the window where it was a little cooler.  Ogilvy handed her the glass of mead, and she nodded gratefully and took a sip. Her cheeks were adorably flushed, her eyes sparkling.

“That was wonderful!” she said.  “I haven’t danced in so long! It felt as though I was a peasant girl from centuries past, dancing in the dark of winter to welcome back the sun.”

“You looked to be enjoying the ritual,” said Ogilvy, and she smiled.

“I doubt she would have had to wear a corset, however,” she remarked, still holding her side.  “Oh, for a day when women don’t have to suffer being trussed up like chickens!”

His smile widened.

“All things come around, in their own time,” he said.  “I’ve no doubt undergarments are the same.”

Belle sighed, closing her eyes briefly before glancing across at him.

“I can’t seem to stop saying improper things in your presence,” she said, looking vexed.  “And now I’ve gone and mentioned that fact. Really, Mr Ogilvy, you must learn not to listen to anything I say.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, enjoying her flustered expression.  “Although if it would make you more comfortable, I could pretend to be distracted by the music.”

She bit back a smile, taking another sip of mead, and they watched the rest of the dance in silence.  Ogilvy could see that Alice and the others were growing tired, and the carollers looked as though they were flagging, so he asked Hatter to lead them down to the kitchens for cider and mince pies.  A chorus of Christmas greetings rang out as the carollers took their leave, and Alice flopped into one of the chairs, trying to catch her breath. Ava and Nicholas squeezed on next to her, and Ogilvy set down his glass and moved the chairs back into their previous places, allowing Doc to slump into his favourite seat and open a book.

“Half past six,” said Alice, with a yawn, and looked at the twins.  “Time for you two to get ready for bed.”

There were groans from the twins, but they seemed good-natured, and they pushed to their feet, yawning.

“Early bed will make the morning come all the quicker,” said Belle.  “And you must hang up your stockings.”

The twins shared a curious glance.

“For - for presents?” asked Nicholas, and Alice smiled, pushing herself up straight.

“Of course!” she said.  “We need to leave out a mince pie and a glass of sherry for Father Christmas, if he’s to bring you some.”

“Father Christmas would prefer _two_ mince pies,” remarked Doc, from behind his book.  “And a large brandy.”

Ogilvy bit his lip to hide a smile.

“He never brought us anything before,” said Ava, a little sadly.  “Maybe we weren’t good enough.”

“Oh, I’m sure that wasn’t it at all,” said Belle, glancing at Alice, who nodded.

“Yes, of course,” she said, with certainty.  “I bet it was because you were - well, you were hiding from grown-ups, weren’t you?  Keeping out of their way in rooftops and attics and warehouses down by the river. Like I was before I came here?”

Ava and Nicholas shifted a little, exchanging glances before nodding a little shyly.

“And what’s Father Christmas?” pressed Alice.

“He’s a grown-up,” said Ava, her face brightening a little.  “He has a beard!”

“Precisely!” said Belle, evidently getting involved in the reassurance.  “I’m sure he knew just how good you had been, but wasn’t able to find you because you hid away so well.”

“We weren’t _always_ good,” admitted Ava.

“One time we stole a whole cheese,” added Nicholas, and Doc snorted in amusement and tried to turn it into a cough.

“Well, that would have been measured against all the good things you did,” Alice assured them.  “I used to hide too, and I never got presents. Not until I came here. Father Christmas could find me when I stopped hiding, you see.  When I was part of a family.”

The twins shared a hopeful, excited smile, and Belle appeared to hide her own smile behind her hand.

“But in order for him to bring your gifts, you need to go to bed,” she said firmly.  “Set out the mince pies and brandy - Alice can help you - and go and get into your nightgowns.”

“I’ll be up to read you a story,” added Ogilvy, looking over the top of his glasses.

Ava held out a hand to Nicholas, and Alice led them from the room, chattering about where they would leave the mince pies.  Belle excused herself to go and change for supper, and trotted up to her room. She changed her skirt and blouse for one of her two tea dresses, which she thought would just about be suitable for a quiet family supper, if not for a formal dinner.  It was blue chiffon, with sleeves that puffed at the shoulders and fitted snugly around her upper arms to the elbows. The dress was a somewhat looser fit than her skirt, which made her wish she had been wearing it for the dancing. She tidied her hair, patting it in place as she studied her reflection.  Her cheeks were still a little flushed, her eyes sparkling. It appeared the exercise had agreed with her. Not to mention the mead.

She left her room, making her way along the corridor, and heard the low sound of Ogilvy’s voice coming from the room on the opposite side of the staircase.  Belle crept closer, petticoats swishing, and peered around the open door. Ava and Nicholas were tucked into twin beds in matching white nightgowns, and Ogilvy was seated on a chair between them, reading aloud from _Pinocchio._  He reached the end of the chapter, glancing up to smile at Belle, and closed the book, setting it on the nightstand.

“Sleep well, both of you,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” said Nicholas.

“You don’t have to call me ‘sir’, Nicholas.”

“No, sir.”

Ogilvy sighed.

“Well, good night, then.”

He got up off the chair, sliding the book onto a shelf, and turned down the lamps, leaving a muted glow in the room.  Belle stepped back as he left, closing the door behind him, and fell into step as they headed for the stairs.

“I suppose it’ll take them a little while to feel settled here,” she observed, and he glanced across at her.

“Yes,” he said.  “They’ve never known a proper home, so there must be a level of insecurity there.  I’d like to think that having you around might help them settle in. Some routine, some structure.  Perhaps then they’ll see me as a family member, rather than simply an authority figure.”

“What did Alice call you, when you first brought her here?” she asked, and he grinned.

“When she’d stopped swearing at me, she mostly called me Big Nose.”

Belle giggled.

“Impertinent little minx!”

“As I told her often,” he said, looking amused.  “That one didn’t last. She soon switched out to calling me Papa.  I was thrilled.”

“What caused the change?” asked Belle, and he smiled, pausing at the top of the staircase with one hand on the banister.

“She broke something,” he said simply.  “A plate, I think. Nothing of consequence.  But she was certain that at best I was going to toss her out onto the street because of it.”

“The poor thing!”

“Indeed,” he agreed.  “She was distraught, crying and begging and telling me how sorry she was.  It took me a long time to calm her down and convince her that I didn’t care in the slightest.  When I finished reading her a story that evening, she kissed my cheek and called me Papa.”

He offered her his arm, and they started down the stairs.

"She seems a lovely young girl," said Belle thoughtfully.  "I think you've done an excellent job at raising her."

He paused on the stairs, turning to face her, a smile making his eyes crease at the corners, the light twinkling in them.  Really, he had very nice eyes.  Which she absolutely shouldn't have noticed.

"Thank you," he said.  "That means a lot to me.  You are, after all, experienced in these things."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that exactly," she said wryly, as they continued down.  "I'm well aware that my youth and appearance made me highly unsuitable as a governess in the eyes of some."

"Well, more fool them," he said quietly.  "I - I value your good opinion, Miss Marchland.  More than you know."

They had reached the hallway, and he paused, her arm still linked through his.  They were standing very close, and she could feel the heat of him through the sleeve of his jacket.  It made her breath catch, her heart thump, a flush rise in her cheeks.  She told herself it was the mead.  After a moment, Ogilvy glanced away, gesturing ahead of them.

“I - ah - asked for supper to be served in the breakfast room,” he said.  “I didn’t see the point of us using the dining room just for an informal meal.  Perhaps we might have some music after dinner.”

“Is this an invitation for me to play?” she asked teasingly.  “I warn you, the mead will not have improved my abilities.”

He smiled at that.

“Well, we do have a gramophone,” he said.  “Perhaps you’d prefer to be entertained, instead.”

Belle’s eyes widened with delight, and he grinned as he led her into the breakfast room.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompted: "I suppose it's just you and me, then"

Supper was a pleasant, jovial affair, with everyone helping themselves to the food, and the conversation turning to festive games and the plans for a walk before dinner the next day.

“Will you come to church in the morning, Miss Marchland?” asked Alice.  “The servants are all going, and I’ll take the children, too.”

“Thank you, I’d be delighted,” said Belle, and glanced at Ogilvy and the Professor.

“Oh, they never go,” said Alice, waving a hand.  “Couple of heathens, the pair of them. It’s up to you and I to provide some moral guidance in this household.”

“If I need moral guidance I hardly think I need look to the church,” remarked Ogilvy.  “Nor to you, I might add. It’s not so long since you were caught slipping a frog into Mrs Potts’ bed, as I recall.”

“I didn’t do _that_!” said Alice indignantly.  “It was a toad!”

“Ah, well, that makes all the difference, clearly.”

“And I was _nine_!”

“Which, if I remember rightly, was no comfort to poor Mrs Potts and her warty new bed-partner.”

Alice giggled, and set down her glass of wine.

“How you didn’t throw me out of the house I shall never know.”

“Endless patience and a large supply of whisky,” he remarked, and she shot him a fond look.

“Why don’t we have some music?” she suggested.  “Two new pieces came this week, and I haven’t heard them yet.”

“To the library, then,” said the Professor, closing his book around one finger to keep his place.  “Miss Marchland, you expressed an interest in seeing a little more of the world. I’d be delighted to show you the relics of some of our travels.”

Ogilvy gave him a hand to help him out of the chair, and they wandered out, deep in conversation about something.  Belle heard a vague reference to Lady Ella, and frowned curiously, her ears pricking up. They were talking in too low a tone for her to catch the conversation, and she gave up, not wanting to pry.  Alice trotted over to her, taking her arm as they made their way to the library.

“I thought the gramophone was magic when it first arrived,” she confessed.  “Papa used to sit me in front of it and play music over and over each evening.  I think it’s wonderful.”

“As do I,” said Belle.  “I remember thinking the same, when I first saw one.  Not to mention the cinematograph. I found myself wanting to understand all the wonderful science behind it.  Human inventiveness never ceases to amaze me.”

“Yes,” sighed Alice.  “I wish it were _always_ used to produce things of beauty, things that bring happiness.  Too many people are greedy and cruel. There should be more beauty in this world.”

“Well,” said Belle, patting her hand as they entered the library.  “You must try to add to that beauty where you can.”

“Well, I - I do like to draw,” admitted Alice, curling her lip a little and looking uncertain.  “I’m not sure I’m any good - Papa says so, but he thinks everything I do is good - but I do enjoy it.  Perhaps it’s silly.”

“Of course it isn’t silly,” said Belle warmly.  “You must do it as long as it brings you pleasure.  I’d like to see some of your drawings, if you want to show me.”

Alice beamed, eyes sparkling, and she squeezed Belle’s arm.

“Would you - would you mind very much if I called you Belle?” she asked, a little awkwardly.  “Miss Marchland seems so - so _formal_.  Papa said I should ask.”

Belle smiled.

“Of course you may,” she said.  “If I may call you Alice.”

“Oh, please do!”  

Alice’s grin widened, and she released Belle’s arm as they entered the library.  A fire was burning merrily in the hearth, the room pleasantly warm, and the Professor had wandered over to one of the bookcases and was tugging at a carved wooden box on the bottom shelf.  Fresh greenery had been strewn across the mantelpiece, and Belle lifted her nose to sniff the air, boughs of pine and sprigs of rosemary sending up a clean scent. Ogilvy was setting up the gramophone, a leather-bound box of heavy disc records already open beneath the little table it sat on, and Alice hurried across to squat down beside him.

“Something cheerful, I think,” she said.  “You can listen to the slow ones when I’ve gone to bed.”

He shot her an amused look.

“Why don’t you choose, then?” he suggested.  “I think I’ll have a drink.”

Alice immediately started looking through the records, and Belle approached the Professor, who had lifted the wooden box onto the nearby desk and was pawing through the contents.  She peered in curiously, seeing gleaming crystals in a myriad of colours, strange carvings in pale wood and soft stone, implements in worked silver and wrought iron.

“So many things,” she said, fascinated.  “Where do they come from?”

“Oh, all over the place, really,” he said vaguely, pushing his glasses up his nose.  “Sometimes I like to get something local to whatever area we’re in. They have a special sort of energy about them, you know.”

He selected a small figurine, carved from a few lines in greenish stone.  It was in the shape of a thin, bald man with his arms flat to his sides and a grotesque expression on his face.  

“This was given to us in Scotland.  A house in Roslin. Rumoured to chase away evil spirits.  I’m not sure how much use it is, but every little helps, I always think.”

Belle took it from him, the stone smooth and cool in her hands.  The carved figure seemed to stare at her with deep-cut eyes, its mouth a grim slash, and she placed it back in the box with a slight shudder.  He held out something else, a shining black crystal about the length of her index finger.

“Obsidian,” he announced.  “Good for protection. You should take it, I have others.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” she said hastily, and he gave her a look over the top of his glasses.

“It would give me a little peace of mind, if not you,” he said.  “Please. Take it.”

She opened and closed her mouth, but took the crystal from him.  It was cool and smooth in her palm, and she shivered a little as she looked it over.

“Alice said that you investigate strange occurrences,” she said, trying to keep the scepticism from her voice.  “What sort of things, if I may ask?”

“Ah!”  He held up a circular piece of what looked like tarnished silver.  “I was looking for that! Never know when you might need a little extra help in shielding.”

He turned the piece of silver over and over in his hands, thumbs rubbing at the surface, which appeared to have been intricately worked with a Celtic knot design.

“Professor?” prompted Belle, and he started and looked up.

“What?  Oh - all sorts of things,” he said vaguely.  “Hauntings, possessions, people disappearing…”

“But - but it’s not _really_ hauntings, is it?” she persisted.  “Aren’t these things just parlour tricks?”

“Well, on occasion,” he agreed.  “But then you can’t always tell that from a letter, so they have to be looked into.  Sometimes it’s jokers playing pranks, of course, or children scaring themselves. One time we uncovered a quite elaborate plot to get the true beneficiary of a will to transfer the family home to another relative by terrifying the beneficiary out of his wits.”

Belle nodded, satisfied, but he eyed her, turning the silver circle between his fingers.

“Sometimes it _is_ pure human greed and mischief,” he said gravely.  “But sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes it’s far worse.  There are many strange things in this world, Miss Marchland.  As you’ll no doubt discover.”

“Me?” she said, puzzled.  “I shouldn’t think that I’ll be travelling with you on your adventures.”

“Really?” he said, his eyes crinkling as he smiled.  “I thought you might enjoy the change of scene.”

Music started up from behind them, a cheerful, upbeat tune, and Belle turned to watch Alice dance her way over to the chairs by the fireplace and flop into one of them, singing along to the song.  Ogilvy had returned, carrying two glasses of the honey-gold mead, and she reached out out to take the glass from him with a smile. The Professor waved away the other.

“No no, I think I’ll have a whisky,” he said.  “I was just telling Miss Marchland about some of our travels.”

“Oh yes?”  Ogilvy turned his attention back to her, eyebrows raising.  “Well, it seems we may have to go away again very soon. Perhaps you might like to accompany us, Miss Marchland.”

“I—”  She opened and closed her mouth.  “But - the children’s education…”

The Professor smiled, and bustled off get himself a whisky.  Ogilvy’s eyes gleamed.

“Oh, we can work something out, I’m sure,” he said.  “What’s that you have?”

He gestured to her curled fist, and Belle held up the finger of obsidian.  She refused to call it a wand, even though her mind was whispering the word to her.

“Oh, the Professor gave it to me,” she said.  “He says it’s for protection.”

“And so it is.”  He held out his hand.  “Would you like me to carry it for you?  You seem to be suffering from a distinct lack of pockets in that dress.”

She smiled, holding it out to him, and Ogilvy took it, tucking it into the pocket of his waistcoat.  He turned to the box of trinkets, taking a sip of his mead and setting down his glass. Belle watched as his hands gently ran over them, long fingers stroking over polished crystals and smooth stone and tracing the lines of worked silver.

“So many memories in here,” he mused.  “I swear Doc likes to collect something from every town we visit.”

“He said something about energies,” said Belle.  “I have to confess I didn’t really understand what he meant.”

Ogilvy straightened up, glancing across at her.  Her mouth was twisted a little in its smile, the light of scepticism in her eyes.  He couldn’t blame her; she would have had no exposure to the darker things in life, and he was grateful for it.  It almost seemed a shame to change that fact.  A necessary evil, but he still felt a twinge of regret for what she would lose by it.

“Well, there are different energies in different places,” he said gently.  “And sometimes, things from that place can retain a little of that energy. These crystals have different uses, too.  The obsidian, for example, is excellent for repelling more malign entities, but pieces such as this rose quartz are used in healing.”

He held up a pale pink stone the size of a hen’s egg, and Belle reached out to take it from him, turning it between her fingers, her brow crinkled in confusion.

“But - but they’re just rocks.”

“Rocks with a certain power,” he said.  “As with all things on this earth. You just need to know how to recognise and harness it, that’s all.”

Belle glanced up, raising a brow as she placed the crystal back in his palm.

“Like - like some sort of natural magic?” she asked, her voice heavy with disbelief.  “You don’t mean that, surely?”

“Is it so surprising to you?”

“Well, a little,” she admitted.  “I thought you were a man of science.”

“And so I am.”

“Well, how can you believe in something that you can’t observe?”

His smile widened.

“You’re the one going to church tomorrow.”

Belle shot him a flat look.

“That’s entirely different.”

“Is it?”

She was silent for a moment, and he could see her thinking.

“Most children in this country are raised from birth to believe in an omnipresent God,” he added.  “But humanity has been around far longer than the Christian church. What do you suppose our distant ancestors believed?”

Her eyes narrowed a little, and he could feel the curiosity rising up in her as she took a step closer.

“I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully.  “I suppose they viewed things differently, didn’t they?  Ancient gods and goddesses, the power of nature, perhaps.  Offerings to Mother Earth for a good summer and a bountiful harvest.”

“Much as churches up and down the land give thanks at Harvest Festival today,” he observed.  “Perhaps things aren’t so different now, Miss Marchland. Perhaps there is value in the old ways, too, and the power some attribute to one God comes from many sources.”

Her mouth curved in a tiny smile, her eyes gleaming, and he felt love for her surge within his chest, pushing up into his throat in a warm bubble.

“Perhaps you’re right,” she said.  “Perhaps I ought to open my mind a little.”

“I think we would all benefit from that philosophy,” he said.

He closed up the box, fingers sliding over the carved wooden lid, his heavy gold ring gleaming in the lamplight. Belle reached out, letting one fingertip rub over the polished surface of the blue-grey moonstone, and he watched her flinch, her eyes widen.

“I - I’m so sorry,” she whispered, drawing back and looking mortified.  “I’m sorry. Forgive me, I - I don’t know why I did that.”

“It’s quite alright,” he assured her, his voice gentle.  “Would you like to see it? Here.”

He slipped the ring from his finger, holding it out to her, and after a moment Belle reached out to take it.  She bent her head a little, turning it between fingers and thumbs, and he watched the light shine on her hair, strands of bronze and copper.

“It looks very old,” she observed.

“It is,” he said.  “The stone is far older than the ring itself.  I believe that one was reworked in the latter part of the seventeenth century.”

She looked up, eyes wide.

“That _is_ old,” she said.  “How did you come by it, if it’s not an impertinent question?”

“It was handed down,” he said.  “I’m only the latest in a long line of bearers.”

“Oh.”  She held up the ring, turning it this way and that.  “Will you pass it on to Nicholas?”

Ogilvy smiled.

“Who can say where it will end up?”

“Papa, will you dance with me?”

Alice’s voice made them look around, and Ogilvy took a sip of his mead, setting the glass down on the desk.

“If you put on something a little less exuberant, certainly.”

She led him away, and Belle looked down at the ring in her hands, frowning a little as she looked it over. There was a strange feeling, a creeping sensation on the nape of her neck, almost as though she was being watched. She watched the light gleam on the polished moonstone, a sense of familiarity stealing over her, although she was certain that she had never seen the ring before.  An image came to her, unbidden, and disappeared almost before it took form in her mind. She chewed her lip, frowning, and filed the thought away to puzzle over later.  Taking up her glass, she had a sip of the mead, letting the sweet taste spread over her tongue, and smiled as she watched Ogilvy turn Alice around to the joyful tune from the gramophone.

* * *

It was nearing eleven when the music selected became slower, the jaunty sounds of cheerful voices and brass instruments exchanged for more placid orchestral arrangements. From her chair by the fire, Alice yawned widely, hiding it behind the back of her hand.

“Well, I think I’ll go to bed,” she said, getting to her feet.  “Goodnight.”

She smiled at Belle, and bent to kiss the Professor’s cheek.  He returned the gesture, patting her hand affectionately.

“Goodnight, dear.  I’m going up myself in a moment, I just need to fill the children’s stockings.”

“We put the mince pies next to the chimney breast if you need to fortify yourself for the task,” she said.  “With the large brandy you asked for.”

“I may take that to bed with me, then,” he said appreciatively.  “Goodnight all.”

He set aside his book and pushed to his feet, heading off to the living room.  Alice trotted over to where Ogilvy was looking through the gramophone records, and he straightened up with a disc in his hands.  Belle had returned his moonstone ring to him earlier in the evening, and it caught the light as he carefully removed the record from its sleeve.

“Goodnight, Papa,” said Alice, kissing his cheek.  “Sweet dreams, and don’t stay up all night.”

“Goodnight, darling.”

Ogilvy kissed her back, and she beamed at them before sauntering out.  Belle folded her hands in her lap, watching as he placed the disc on the gramophone and lifted the needle onto it.  A slow piece began to play: an opera aria that she vaguely recognised, and Ogilvy glanced across at her, golden light from the lamps catching his glasses and picking out the silver at his temples.  He licked his lips almost nervously, a brief pass of the tip of his tongue.

“Well,” he said.  “I suppose it’s just you and me, then.”

“So it would seem,” she said.

He nodded, and she noticed that he was turning the ring on his finger again.  It seemed a nervous trait with him, an unconscious habit.

“Would you - ah - care to dance?” he asked hesitantly.

It wasn't proper, by any means, not when they were alone, but after the first few inner admonitions, which spoke with the voice of her former governess, Belle smiled.  The mead had made her bold, and she decided that she very much wanted to dance with him.  Who would ever know, after all?

“I should love to.”

His smile widened, and he strode over and held out his hand, helping her up from the chair and stepping backwards on the polished wooden floor.  Belle moved closer, his other hand sliding around her waist, and she rested her own on his upper arm.  Standing this close to him was a little overwhelming, and she caught her lip between her teeth as she looked up.  He was watching her calmly, his lips slightly parted, as though his own breath was a little heavier, and she swallowed hard as they stepped into a slow waltz. His hand was very warm around hers, and she could feel the heat of his body through his jacket.  She felt a little light-headed, and she wondered how strong the mead was.

She had always been a good dancer, but she was surprised by how good he was, light on his feet, leading her perfectly.  She was also surprised by how naturally the dance seemed to flow, as though they had been practising, as though they had been partnered for years.  He was smiling at her, his eyes bright with emotions she couldn’t interpret, and she let herself melt into the dance, losing herself in movement and music and the scents of pine and rosemary.

The tune ended, the gramophone sending out a tiny, rhythmic scratching noise as the needle circled the centre of the disc over and over, and Belle sighed regretfully.  She expected the dance to stop, but Ogilvy kept up the slow turning steps, continuing to move them in a gentle circle. He began to sing something in a language she didn’t recognise, low and lilting, the words soft and flowing from his mouth with rounded consonants and a rolling of r’s.  She recognised none of them, but something about the song was familiar, as though part of a dream she couldn’t quite forget.

The song finished, but he kept up the waltz, humming the tune as they danced, and Belle tilted her head to catch his eye.

“What was that?” she whispered.  “Is it - Gaelic?”

His hand tightened on hers a little, and his smile was brief, and somewhat sad.

“A dead language,” he said.  “A ghost of a memory, nothing more.”

“People do still speak it, you know,” she said.

“No no, I didn’t mean—”  He shook his head. “No matter.”

Belle caught her lip between her teeth as they turned, eyeing him curiously.

“Will you sing it again?”

He smiled a little, and began to sing in that low, lilting voice, mouth pursing as it formed the words, breath whispering over his lips with soft sibilants.  She could see the way his tongue flicked the roof of his mouth, wrapping around each syllable, and she closed her eyes as the sound of his voice poured over her.  The tune was mournful, haunting, and it tickled at the back of her mind, as though she ought to remember it. Her eyes flicked open, fixing on his as the song ended, and they drew to a stop.  His hand was warm on her waist, his eyes dark and deep, and Belle let out a contented sigh.

“That was lovely,” she said, and he smiled.

“It’s been years since I sang that one,” he said quietly.  “Lifetimes.”

“It sounds so sad,” she said.

“A lament,” he explained.  “A man mourning his lost love, asking the gods to reunite them, in this life or the next.”

“Very sad, then,” she said, and felt something pull at her, deep in her chest.  A forgotten longing. “I hope he found her.”

“Yes.”

His voice was barely more than a whisper, and she wondered who he had lost in life, her heart aching a little for his pain.  He released her hand, his other leaving her waist, and she took a step back, the cool of the room seeming to steal over her skin, making her shiver.

“I - I suppose I should go to bed,” she said.  “No doubt tomorrow will be a busy day.”

“Yes,” he said quietly.  “No doubt.”

He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, drawing out the length of obsidian, and held it out to her, pressing it into her palm and folding her fingers around it with his own as his eyes caught and held hers.  She felt her breath hitch in her chest, her heart thumping hard, and he smiled, a brief twitch of his lips.

“Goodnight, Miss Marchland,” he said.  “I wish you pleasant dreams.”

He gave her a tiny bow of his head, releasing her hands and stepping back from her before heading for the doors.  Belle watched him go, her heart still thumping, skin tingling from his touch.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompted: Belle doesn't realize how strong the mead is and becomes a bit drunk which lowers her inhibitions and brings buried memories to the surface

_Staggering from the crowd on bare feet to catch her breath, she swayed to the music, eyes closed as pipes whistled and strings thrummed, small skin drums tapping out an insistent beat.  The night had been long, and her head was light from the mead she had drunk and the whirling, weaving dances. Perspiration gleamed on her brow, her cheeks flushed with the exertion and the heat of the fire, but the grass was pleasantly cool and springy beneath her bare feet.  The hem of her skirt was heavy with dew, damp against her bare legs, and she turned her face up to the sky and threw out her arms as she spun in a circle, giggling. It made her dizzy, and she stumbled, almost falling before two arms grasped her and pulled her upright._

_“Careful, Lira,” a familiar voice admonished.  “You want to welcome the sunrise with a broken head?”_

_She turned in his arms, falling against his slim chest a little as she tried to find her feet, and shook back her hair as she gazed up at him.  Cameron grinned at her with a glint in his eyes, hair hanging in his face, and she let her palms rest against his chest, fingers catching in the tunic he wore.  There were tiny beads sewn around the neckline in an intricate, interwoven pattern, and she tried to follow it with her eyes before giving up._

_“I wasn’t going to fall over,” she said, and he raised an eyebrow._

_“Then why are you hanging onto me, hmm?”_

_His voice was deliciously low, the burr of his accent rumbling pleasantly through his chest and through her body.  It made her shiver pleasantly, and she wanted to tell him so. She wanted to tell him how much she wanted him, how she had wanted him since he had first joined their tribe a few years earlier.  They had struck up an unlikely friendship from the start, based on an inexplicable fascination on her side and a patient indulgence on his, and she had decided that she wanted to take the obvious next step._

_“Maybe I’m hoping you’ll kiss me,” she said boldly, and his eyes widened before he burst into laughter._

_“How much have you had to drink?”_

_“Not as much as some,” she said, a little defensively.  “Brigid’s passed out by the apple trees.”_

_“Brigid isn’t the chief’s daughter,” he said dryly.  “Your father would lay me out if I so much as touched you.”_

_“He’s drunk too,” she said airily, glancing over her shoulder to where the chief lay slumped against his younger brother’s shoulder, talking and laughing as they passed a horn of mead between them.  “He’s not watching me. And don’t tell me you don’t want to kiss me, because I won’t believe you.”_

_His grip tightened around her waist._

_“Perhaps,” he said, and his voice was a soft growl.  “I’m just not sure that Midsummer’s Eve is the time.”_

_“It’s the_ perfect _time,” she insisted.  “I was born at Midsummer, you know.”_

_“Were you now?”  He raised an eyebrow.  “A cause for double celebration, then?”_

_“Will you kiss me or not?” she asked impatiently, and his grin widened._

_“Dance with me first.”_

_He tightened his grip around her before pulling her into the whirling, weaving mass of people, and she grasped his hand, feet moving nimbly through the steps as he spun her around.  The music touched her soul, made it soar in joy as she moved with him, breaking apart to link arms with others and twist her way down the line before meeting him at the end and spinning in place.  She threw back her head and whooped with delight, and they stumbled and fell, rolling down the grassy slope to sprawl in the dew-soaked heather, breathless and giggling. She could feel his breath on her face, his nose mere inches from hers, and if she raised her head just a little, she would be able to kiss him.  The thought was exciting, and her hand reached up to touch him, fingers playing along the beaded edge of his tunic, following the twisting lines of black and brown and white though their intricate knot work._

_“Did you make this, Cam?” she asked, and he nodded._

_“Aye.”_

_“It’s very pretty in the moonlight.”_

_“Not as lovely as you.”_

_His admission, the first overt indication that he found her attractive, made her want to grin with a mix of satisfaction and triumph.  He was lying on top of her, his weight pressing down on her, comforting and strangely familiar, and she let her breathing ease as she reached up to stroke his hair back from his face.  His features were shadowed, limned with bronze from the crackling fire and a hint of silvery-blue from the moon sliding towards the horizon._

_“Kiss me,” she whispered._

_He hesitated only for a moment, and then his mouth found hers, lips gently parting, his tongue entering her as his fingers pushed into her hair.  His touch made her shiver, the rasp of his stubble on her chin a new and delicious sensation. She could taste the sweetness of mead on his tongue, his mouth hot and wet, and she moaned, pushing her hips up into him as her arms slid around his back.  His tongue probed delicately, their lips growing wet, and she could feel the longing for him curl and tighten in her belly, her legs parting in her skirts to let him push up against her. His hand slid down, cupping her breast through the thin layer of her shirt, and she moaned into his mouth as his thumb rubbed over her nipple._

_Cameron pulled his lips from hers, kissing down the line of her throat, fingers gently pulling at the laces of her shirt, pushing it open to expose her breast.  He kissed down, mouth closing over her nipple, hot and wet, and she let out a tiny cry, feeling him harden against her where he lay between her legs. He let out a low groan of pleasure, grinding his hips, causing waves of pleasure to go through her, and she gazed up at the fading stars as the dawn approached, the insistent sound of drums making the earth beneath her throb, keeping pace with her racing heart._

* * *

Belle awoke with a start, heart thumping and a heavy throb of desire low down in her belly.  She squeezed her thighs together, the dark of the room hiding her blush as flashes of the dream raced through her mind.  It was as though she could still feel the sensations: the hardness of him pressing against her, and the scratch of his stubble against the tender skin of her breast.  The feel of his lips on hers, and the sweet taste of honey on his tongue. Yet again, the man in her dream had not been a stranger to her, even if they had both gone by different names, in a different time.  She licked her lips, heart still thumping. Dreaming of her employer could _not_ turn into a nightly event!  She would never be able to face the man at this rate!  At least their dream counterparts had kept their clothing on this time, she supposed.  Mostly, anyway.

 _It was the mead.  The music and the dancing.  I thought to myself it was like a pagan celebration, so of_ course _I would dream of one.  Poor Mr Ogilvy would be_ appalled _if he knew what turn my dreams have taken!_

The room was dark, the house silent, and she imagined there were hours to go until dawn.  Shaking her head, she ran her hands over her face and told herself firmly to go back to sleep.  She rolled onto her side, enjoying the feel of cold cotton against her flushed cheek, and trying to ignore the insistent throb between her legs. Perhaps it would be best if she refused any further offers of hot mead.

* * *

When Belle awoke, the winter sun was sending tiny fingers of light around the edge of her heavy curtains. One glance out of the windows showed that fresh snow had fallen during the night, and she shivered a little in her dressing gown, hurrying to wash and dress herself for the day.  There were sounds of excitement coming from below, excited squeals which made her smile, and the scent of breakfast in the air. She patted her hair as she left her room, tucking a pin into place, and made her way downstairs to the breakfast room.

The children were in the process of going through the contents of their stockings: oranges, nuts and little bags of sweets were already beside them, and Nicholas crowed in excitement as he pulled out a small, stuffed bear. Ava made the toy soldier she was playing with walk over to it and stand to attention.

“Good morning, Miss Marchland.”  Mr Ogilvy’s voice made her look around at the breakfast table.  “A merry Christmas to you.”

She turned on her toes to face him, feeling the blush rise in her cheeks as she returned the greeting, and his eyes twinkled as he smiled at her.  It only made her blush harder, and she tried to push away the memories of her dream.

“Help yourself to some breakfast,” he added, lifting his coffee cup.  “If you’re heading to church I suggest getting something hot inside you.  Alice tells me it’s likely to be freezing in there.”

“Reverend Winters isn’t known for making short sermons, either,” said Alice dryly.  “At least there’ll be singing, I suppose.”

Belle smiled, and went to the sideboard to make her selection.  She chose porridge with spiced apples, sitting next to Alice and pouring herself a cup of chocolate.  Ava let out a squeak of delight as she pulled out her own stuffed bear to match Nicholas’s.

“I’m afraid they wouldn’t wait,” said Alice, nodding to the twins.  “It seemed the best way to eat our breakfast in peace.”

“Miss Belle, Father Christmas found us!” said Nicholas eagerly.  “He filled our stockings, look!”

“So I see,” said Belle, smiling.  “He must think you were both very good children indeed.”

The twins beamed at her, and she turned back to share a smile with Alice before taking a spoonful of the porridge.  It was soft and creamy in her mouth, the spiced apples tart on her tongue and warm with the flavour of cloves and cinnamon.  It was delicious, and she tucked in, the porridge warming her as she emptied the bowl.

She had finished the porridge and moved on to a plate of sausages and eggs when the Professor bustled into the room, fixing the twins with a stern look that was somewhat undermined by the twinkle in his eyes.

“There appears to be a cat in my study,” he said.  “Tangled up in a blue ribbon and smelling strongly of vinegar.  You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that?”

“He’s for you!” blurted Nicholas.  “Happy Christmas! His name’s Charlie!”

“Hmm.”  The Professor gave him a flat look.  “Well, I gave it a piece of kipper from the kitchens and it’s sleeping in my chair.  If it leaves me a present of its own I’ll be looking to you to clean it up.”

“He can catch mice,” said Ava, sending him a pleading look.  “That’s a _good_ thing.  He’s a good cat, Professor!”

“I’m sure he is, my dear, I’m sure he is.”

He patted her head and went to the sideboard, dishing up kippers and eggs and flopping into the chair next to Ogilvy, who poured him some coffee.

“You took your time,” he remarked, and the Professor shrugged as he slurped at the coffee.

“I had some letters to write,” he said.  “You remember I told you of the request I received last week from Lady Tremaine?”

“I certainly remember you snorting and saying it was stuff and nonsense,” remarked Ogilvy, and the Professor sniffed.

“Yes, well,” he said, poking at his eggs.  “Her Ladyship always did have a flair for the dramatic.  Rather too inclined to see malign interference in every misfortune that befalls her.  I must confess I thought her to be exaggerating.”

“But no longer, I take it,” said Ogilvy.  “Change of heart?”

The Professor pulled a face, taking another sip of coffee.

“Something like that,” he admitted.  “A stray thought encouraged me to take another look at the letter, and there may be something there that needs our input.  I thought perhaps we might take a trip north to see what we can find.”

“Oh!” said Alice excitedly.  “May I come!”

The Professor put down his fork, looking at her over the top of his glasses.

“Actually, I thought we might all go,” he said lightly.  “Lady Tremaine owns a large cottage near the house in question, so if she agrees to open it up, we could all stay there quite comfortably, I should think.  I’ve written to her, so it shouldn’t take long to get an answer.”

Alice squeaked, eyes gleaming as she shared a delighted grin with Belle.

“Where is the house?” she asked eagerly.  “Have you been there before? Is it very grand?  When shall we go? How long shall we stay?”

“Perhaps just one question at a time,” suggested Ogilvy gently, and she grinned at him, almost bouncing in her chair.

“Well, I’ve never been to Willowbrook Grange,” said the Professor, loading his fork with eggs.  “From what I hear the house itself is delightful. It’s in the north of the lake country, and I’m told has glorious views and very fine gardens, although what you’ll see of them in the winter is debatable.”

“I’ve always wanted to see the lake country,” said Belle.  “Lady Ella visited a number of times; I believe she’s a friend of Lady Tremaine.”

“She may well be present,” said Ogilvy, pouring himself more coffee.  “Lady Ella never could resist a party.”

“Doc, what is it that Lady Tremaine wants you to investigate?” asked Alice, reaching for another piece of toast.

The Professor chewed for a moment, reaching for his coffee cup and taking a drink before answering.

“She claims that the ruins near the house are haunted by restless spirits,” he said.  “It may simply be youngsters trying to scare one another after dark, of course, but it’s worth looking into.”

“Does she provide any evidence for her claims?” asked Belle.  “Odd occurrences can be explained by natural phenomena: wind currents creating moaning sounds, or strange lights caused by the luminescence found in some natural organisms.”

Ogilvy exchanged a look with the Professor, and a brief smile, and Belle blushed.

“Forgive me,” she muttered, ducking her head.  “I’m - I’m sure you already know that.”

“Your input is valued, Miss Marchland, I assure you,” said the Professor, gesturing with his fork.  “Please, don’t feel that you have to hold back if you have an interest in our work.”

“We’d be more than happy to discuss our methods,” added Ogilvy.  “A different perspective is always useful.”

“Perhaps you’d like to get involved in the investigation,” said the Professor, looking delighted.  “I always say that we could use another pair of eyes.”

“I can help too!” said Alice.  “We’ll both help, won’t we, Belle?”

“Well, I—”  Belle glanced between them, Alice and the Professor looking at her eagerly, Ogilvy with a bland expression on his face, but the light of amusement in his eyes.  “I - should really concentrate on teaching the children.”

“Oh, there’ll be plenty of time for them to learn new things on the journey,” said the Professor cheerfully, waving his fork.  “Travel itself broadens the mind, you know!”

She was certain that he was indulging her, and turned her attention to her breakfast to hide her smile.  The thought of seeing a little more of the country was thrilling, and she had to admit to being more than a little curious about what it was the two men did on these investigations.  It seemed that she would find out very soon.

* * *

Once breakfast was over, Belle attended church with Alice, the twins and most of the servants.  The service was uplifting, the worshippers in good voice, and although the twins fidgeted during the sermon and mouthed along to the hymns they didn’t know, they seemed to enjoy the experience.  The church was cold, though, and it was almost a relief to step out into the winter sun and what little warmth it sent out.

The servants had hurried on ahead, Mrs Potts fretting over getting the preparations for Christmas dinner started, and Belle and the others followed at a more leisurely pace, the twins darting back and forth along the snow-covered path.  As they neared the house, a figure stepped out of the front door, walking briskly away from them, and Alice frowned.

“That’s Papa,” she said.  “I suppose it takes more than Christmas celebrations to make him pass up his walk.”

“Oh,” said Belle, glancing after Ogilvy.  “Well, I think I might take a turn as well.  Do you think he’d mind a little company?”

“I’m sure he’d be delighted,” said Alice, with a grin.  “I’ll tell Mrs Potts to heat up some mulled wine for when you both get back, if you like.”  She took a deep breath and yelled out: _“Papa!”_

Ogilvy seemed to freeze in place, then turn slowly on his toes with a quizzical expression on his face.  Belle closed her eyes.

“We really must start those lessons in etiquette,” she murmured, and Alice giggled.

“This way you don’t have to hurry to catch him,” she said pertly.  “I’ll see you back at the house.”

She hurried on, calling to the twins, and Belle sighed to herself, walking swiftly to where Ogilvy was waiting for her with a tiny smile making his eyes gleam.

“I take it that Alice is suggesting we walk together,” he said dryly, and offered her his arm.

Belle took it, falling into step beside him as they headed towards the park.  They passed a number of couples taking a stroll, and Belle shivered a little as the cold began to seep through her boots into her feet.

“Just the one circuit today, I think,” he remarked.  “It’s colder than ever.”

“A beautiful day, though,” she said, gesturing to the cloudless sky.

“Yes.”  He squinted upwards.  “If the fine weather holds, it should be a clear night.”

“Perhaps we might use the telescope this evening, then,” she suggested, and he smiled at her.

“As you wish.”

Silence fell, and Belle closed her eyes briefly, feeling the slight warmth of the sun on her face as she tilted her face upwards.  Birds were twittering and cawing in the trees, and she smiled to herself. A beautiful day, indeed.

“How was the service?” he asked then, making her start.

“Most enjoyable,” she said truthfully.  “But cold. Alice has suggested mulled wine when we return, and I certainly wouldn’t refuse a glass.”

“An excellent notion.”

There was silence for a moment, but for the gentle crunch of frosted leaves and fresh snow beneath their feet. Belle eyed him briefly as he walked beside her, his head a little bowed, as though he were deep in thought.

“Alice said that you and the Professor never go to church,” she said.

“No, we don’t.”

“Never?” she asked, surprised, and he glanced across at her.

“Is that so surprising?”

“It’s - unusual,” she admitted.  “I - I suppose I’m used to those in polite society at least _pretending_ some form of devotion, even if they don’t tend to practice it in their dealings with those less fortunate.”

Ogilvy chuckled at that, and eyed her with an expression of amusement.

“Well, I’ve never claimed to be part of polite society,” he said.  “But I daresay you’re right. My household is somewhat bohemian, and I make no apologies for that.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to imply—” she began, and he held up a hand.

“Please, don’t take that statement for defensiveness,” he said.  “I merely meant that I give my family and servants the freedom to make their own choices in the way they conduct their lives, by and large.  I have no objection to how others seek purpose and meaning, but I personally have no desire to look to the church for guidance.”

“Oh,” she said, and put her head to the side.  “Might I - might I ask why not? Is there some - some matter of doctrine that you object to?”

Ogilvy seemed to hesitate, as though he were choosing his words carefully.  His eyes studied the ground ahead of them, sunlight glinting on the rims of his glasses, his breath misting outwards as he walked.  He straightened up a little, glancing across again, and this time he held her gaze as he spoke.

“Both Doc and I had a - an _experience_ with the church,” he said, his voice a little stilted.  “To say it was painful would be a gross understatement. It was a long time ago, but neither one of us has ever really put it behind us.  I’m afraid the institution as a whole is forever - tainted - by that association.”

His dark eyes were filled with an emotion she couldn’t quite interpret, but which seemed to convey a sense of weariness, loss and anguish that she found difficult to witness.  A sudden lump in her throat made it hard to swallow, as though she were filled with tears she couldn’t shed, and she blinked rapidly, tearing her eyes from his as they walked on.  She wondered what the dreadful experience had been, and shook her head as her over-active imagination supplied her with fodder for her nightmares. Shoving the images away with a shudder, she pulled her arm from his and turned to face him on the frozen path, instinctively reaching for his hand and clasping it between hers.

“I’m so sorry,” she said earnestly.  “It was none of my business and I should not have allowed my curiosity to make me pry into your private grief.  Really I shouldn’t. I’m - I’m sorry to have reopened old wounds, however caused.”

He glanced down at their clasped hands, then smiled briefly, putting his free hand over hers.  She could feel the warmth of him through her thin gloves, and her breathing quickened.

“Some wounds never heal, Miss Marchland,” he said.  “But they can ease. Given the right company.”

His eyes were warm and steady, the sadness in them lifting, and he smiled again, patting her hand.

“I’m - I’m extremely glad that you will be travelling with us,” he said.  “I hope to have many more conversations with you on our journey.”

“Yes.”  She returned his smile.  “I should like that, too.”

He gestured ahead of them, and Belle turned on her toes to return to his side, taking a deep breath, the frigid air catching in her throat as they continued their circuit of the park.


	11. Chapter 11

_Five years earlier_

* * *

The sound of light chatter and background music washed over him, and Ogilvy listened with half an ear, sipping at the glass of wine he had taken from a footman.  He was tucked by a marble pillar, watching as the ladies and gentleman wandered past, laughing and chattering about the usual inanities. There would be dancing soon, and he was almost looking forward to being spared from conversation with the other guests.  A multitude of lamps sent out a warm light, making diamonds sparkle and eyes gleam and reflecting off the facets of crystal glasses carried on trays by immaculate servants. Lady Ella Deville had always enjoyed parties, and her large London home made an excellent venue in which to host them.

He watched from the sidelines as she drifted past, tall and pale and slender, patting arms and stroking egos and entertaining her guests with wicked jokes and her surprisingly deep laugh.  Lady Ella was an excellent hostess, and always made sure to invite him. Even if he was a terrible guest. He had scanned the crowd upon entering, as he always did, but the familiar feeling of disappointment had quickly settled on him like a dark cloud.  The milling crowd was made up of ladies and gentlemen, artists and writers, thinkers and philosophers, with a few self-made industrialists such as himself, all gossiping and flirting and drinking too much _._ Belle was not among the guests.

In his heart he knew that he hadn't really expected her to be there, but Doc insisted that there was always hope, and so he tried to attend as many social occasions as he could, in case the Fates decided to smile on him for a change.  The failure to find her was a cause of great anguish for both he and Doc, but it weighed heavier on him, haunting his dreams, stealing his rest with its heavy sense of loss, of hopelessness.  He would turn fifty in a few days, with no sign of her, not even a hint of her whereabouts. They had searched in Britain and on the continent, and even journeyed to the Americas in the vain hope of finding her.  He had paid eyes and ears in dozens of countries, all reporting back to him at the merest hint of a noblewoman with blue eyes and chestnut hair. All for nothing. It was as though she had fallen off the face of the earth, and after six lifetimes of searching, he was desperately afraid that they would never be reunited.

He tried to tell himself not to lose faith, but every passing year wove another layer into the heavy cloak of despair that wrapped around him.  The arrival of Alice four years earlier had helped to lift his spirits, had given him something to concentrate on other than his own misery, but he was well aware that she would grow up and leave eventually.  She would find her special someone, and while he wished her to be happy, he dreaded the day that she would go, leaving he and Doc to their too-quiet house and their endless grief.

“Darling, _do_ stop glaring at the guests as though they owe you money.”

Lady Ella’s drawling voice pulled him out of the swamp of self-pity he was wallowing in, and she sashayed nearer, cream silk dress glittering with a multitude of tiny beads, feathery white plumes bobbing atop her perfectly-styled blonde hair.  Ropes of diamonds glittered around her neck, and she snapped shut her silk fan and flapped a gloved hand at him.

“Go!  Have fun!  Talk to someone other than your dear old Professor for a change!”

“I’ll pass, thank you,” he said.  “Besides, I’m - ah - enjoying the music.”

“No you’re not,” she said flatly.

“Fine, I’m not,” he grumbled.  “Who tuned that cello anyway? It sounds as though he’s playing it with his feet.”

Ella pretended to look affronted, tossing her head a little.

“I have no idea why I bother inviting you to these things,” she huffed.  “You always lurk in the corners as though you’d rather be somewhere else.  Why do you even come?”

“One never knows when there’ll be someone new in town,” he said, taking a sip of his wine, and she rolled her eyes dramatically.

“Please tell me you’re _finally_ on the lookout for a wife after all these years,” she said.  “I can give you some recommendations, if you like. I hear all the gossip and probably know far more dark and delicious secrets than is good for me.  I daresay one of my many acquaintances would suit you.”

“I doubt I have the requisite lineage,” he said dryly, and she sniffed, waving a hand.

“Oh, that’s overrated,” she said dismissively. “Take it from someone who married a lord and regrets it _constantly_.”

“You were already a lady, and your family was as old as your husband’s,” he said.  “I have neither title nor family to sweeten the deal.”

“Money bridges many social divides, I find,” she said, with a grin.  “And you have plenty of _that,_ darling. There has to be more than one who’d be willing to take you, miserable as you are.”

“Well, thank you for that ringing endorsement, but I don’t need any help in finding a wife.”

“Think about it,” she pressed.  “I’m sure young Alice would be pleased to have a mother figure in her life. There are things a father can’t teach a daughter, you know.”

“Perhaps,” he acknowledged.  “But nothing that a governess can’t teach her.”

“Assuming you can find one that suits,” she said slyly, and he grunted.

“Yes, alright, so the last one was a bloody disaster,” he grumbled.  “I’m well aware. No doubt I’ll find one that doesn’t try to crush her spirit and that Alice doesn’t hate.  Eventually.”

“Oh, the one I took on a few months ago has been _wonderful_ ,” she said.  “Far too young and pretty to be teaching, in my opinion.  No doubt she’ll run off and get married at some point, but for the moment she seems happy enough with her books.”

“Really?”  He took a sip of his wine.  “What’s her name? Perhaps I can entice her to our house to teach Alice.”

She slapped his arm playfully with her fan.

“Don’t you dare try to poach my governess!” she scolded.  “Besides, she’s safely tucked out of the way at Furton Grange.  If you’re a good boy and socialise, I may bring her to town when Aurora comes out.  You can have her then.”

“I’m sure she’ll be delighted,” he remarked dryly.

“And don’t think you can change the subject and that I’ll forget about getting you a wife!” she added, jabbing him with her fan and making him wince.  “I won’t have one of my favourite guests moping around the place! Bad for the atmosphere.”

“I thank you for your concern, but I don’t need your help,” he said.

“I beg to differ.”

“No doubt, but I stand by it,” he said.  “I assure you, when I see the right woman, I’ll know.”

“Oh, so you do _like_ women, then?” she said, with a grin.  “I was beginning to think you were a Decadent.  And if you are, you can certainly tell me, you’re among friends in this house.”

He grinned at that.

“No, I’m just - very particular.”

“Well, if you change your mind, you have all my knowledge of polite society at your disposal,” she assured him.  “Tales of scandalous impropriety and whispers of looming financial ruin are only a hastily-written letter away.”

His grin widened.

“Rest assured that if I ever decide to show an interest in the degeneracy of the upper classes, you would be the first person I’d ask.”

“Impertinent!”

She tapped his arm with her fan, smirking, and he chuckled.  Ella let out a dramatic sigh, rolling her eyes.

“Very well,” she drawled.  “I’ll leave you to your _lurking_.  Do at least _try_ to have a good time.”

"I promise."

She wandered off with a sway of her hips, calling out to another guest, and Ogilvy smiled as he watched her go, raising his glass to take a sip of wine.  Ella slipped into the crowd, feathers bobbing as she went, and he let out a sigh, closing his eyes and letting the warmth of the room wash over him. Perhaps it was time to go home.

“A long time, since last we met.”

A woman’s accented voice made him start, eyes flicking open as he glanced around, and it was as though a cold hand clutched his heart and tugged at him, dragging him swiftly back through time, through countless centuries.  With startling clarity, he remembered the fateful day when he had stood by the fire pit of a tribe that was not his own, and had made the choice that was to change his fate and lead him to this moment, bowed down with the weight of ceaseless searching and endless grief.  The woman before him looked exactly as she had then, black eyes weighing and measuring, the light in them too old, too knowing for her smooth cheeks. She was taller then he, and slender, the red gown she wore bright against olive skin. Shining black hair was twisted up on her head, and long gold earrings hung from her lobes, tiny diamonds catching the light from the candles.  Ogilvy felt his jaw tighten, and he nodded stiffly, in recognition.

“Seer."

He was almost surprised that he had spoken, the word falling from his lips in barely more than a whisper, scattering in the air like dust.  Her full mouth curved in a smile.

“You look older, Spinner.”

“Time tends to have that effect,” he said, his voice cool.  “Except on you, it seems. Strange.”

Her smile widened.

“Time plays tricks.”

“Indeed,” he said quietly.  “Cruel tricks.”

Her eyes scanned the room, as though searching for someone, and he wondered why she was there.  He doubted it was for him. Not for the first time, he wondered what she was.

“I’m delighted to make your acquaintance,” he said, for the benefit of a passing gentleman, who eyed them briefly.  “I’m afraid I didn’t catch the name, my Lady.”

Her lips curled upwards, white teeth gleaming, and she dipped a graceful curtsy.

“You may call me Persephone,” she said.  Ogilvy’s eyebrows twitched.

“Really?” he said dryly, taking a sip of his drink.  “And here I thought that in the winter months you walked a different plain to the rest of us mere mortals.”

“Is that what you are?” she asked, raising a slim brow.  “A mere mortal? Somehow I doubt that.”

She spoke the words softly, enunciating the description he had used, r’s rolling off her tongue.  It was almost as though she was mocking him, and his mouth flattened.

“Death leaves its mark on me as much as any man,” he said, and she pursed her lips.

“Yes,” she whispered, taking a step forward, and pressing a swift hand to his heart.  “Here especially.”

Ogilvy flinched, stepping back from her, and she let her arms fall to her sides, a tiny, sad smile making her eyes gleam.

“Your bond was broken,” she said.  “Not completely, but enough. I told the Scholar I could not change that. She wanted to remember you nonetheless. Knowing the pain it would cause. You chose well, Spinner.”

He felt his mouth drop open, his eyes widen.

“You _saw_ her?” he whispered.  “Where? When?”

Her mouth twisted, as though she was vexed at having mentioned it, and one hand flicked, a dismissive gesture, casting away something useless.

“Oh, in another life, another time,” she sighed, and he felt his body sag in disappointment.

“So, not this life,” he said wearily.  “But - but she knew you? She knew - about us?  How?”

“She had to,” said the Seer.  “She needed the knowledge, to prepare her future self.  To send a message through time, and save us all from the darkness to come.”

“What darkness?” he said sharply, and she smiled.

“A problem for a future life, I think.”

Ogilvy scowled, but let it go.   _Deal with the issue at hand, man._

“Then - she had the stone?” he asked.  “No, no, that can’t be. She would need our stones too, mine and Doc’s. Hers alone would not work. How did she—”

“She needed the knowledge,” repeated the Seer.  “And so I gave it to her.”

He took a step forward, his brows lowering as he caught her meaning.

“You - you restored her memories?” he said, his voice a low growl.  “I know the pain that causes, the agony of knowing the other is out in the world and not being able to find them.  You did that to her?”

“I gave her a choice,” she said sharply, dark eyes flashing.  “Just as you did, aeons ago. She chose what little of you she could have.  She will _always_ choose you.  Would you have her choose another?”

He shook his head, sighing, and gazed down at the rippling surface of his wine, as though it would give him comfort.

“I would have her be happy,” he whispered.  “Six lifetimes I’ve searched for her, Seer, and all in vain.  Six lives of pain and loss and misery. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, least of all the one I love most.”

The Seer huffed a little, fingers plucking at her skirts.

“It was necessary,” she said, more quietly.  “I took no joy from the cruelty of it, I assure you.”

“No,” he said coolly.  “I daresay emotion isn’t your strong point.”

“Emotion can be a powerful thing,” she said, ignoring the barb.  “But it can also make one reckless. You may rest assured I have no intention of being so. There is too much at stake. You have your own challenges to face, but I must think of the fates of all.”

“Your schemes are no concern of mine,” he said, his voice stiff.  “Is there a reason you sought me out, or is this a chance meeting?”

She smiled.

“For us, nothing happens by chance,” she said.  “I sense your despair, your weariness. I wished to give you some comfort.  What little there is of it.”

He took a step towards her, his heart thudding, hope and fear kindling in his chest.

“Tell me I will find her in this life,” he whispered, and she shook her head.

“She will find you.”

Hope flared, a burst of heat, making his heart pound.

“Truly?” he whispered.  “She’ll find us? She’ll come home?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

She smiled briefly, but there was a hint of pity in her eyes that made his heart clench.

“I cannot say,” she admitted.  “The board is set. The pieces are not yet in play.”

“A fitting analogy,” he said bitterly.  “We are pawns, after all. Set up to be sacrificed as the gods see fit.”

“The gods do not control everything,” she said sharply.  “And nor do I See everything. Your Scholar will find you.  Take comfort in that, at least.”

“It could be twenty years from now,” he said, with some asperity.

“Perhaps.”  She shrugged delicately.  “Do you grow tired of waiting for her?”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said sharply.  “When she’s back with us and in my arms I will thank the gods for it, but please tell me she’ll come home soon!”

“I cannot say,” she repeated.  “But she will find you.”

She nodded to him, taking a step back and turning away.

“Wait!” he said urgently.  “The stone! Will she have it?”

The Seer paused with her back to him, her shoulders stiff.

“She had the stone when last we met,” she said, her voice carefully neutral.

“And now?”

“I do not See her with the stone,” she said, after a pause.  “But who can say?”

He sighed in frustration.

“Then do you know where it is?”

“No,” she said, and glanced back over her shoulder.  “But you are tenacious, are you not? Perhaps you will find it.  Good luck, Spinner.”

She glided away, skirts rustling as her hips swayed, and he threw back his wine, feeling it burn his throat as it went down.   _She'll come back to us.  She'll come home.  One way or another, she'll come home._


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back in the present day, Belle enjoys the remainder of Christmas Day with the family, and finds that wine loosens her tongue a little...

When Belle and Ogilvy returned to the house, it was filled with the scent of spices from the mulled wine set out in the living room, and the faint hint of roasting goose drafting up from the kitchens.  Belle patted her hair into place as she let the warmth of the room wash over her, hurrying to the fire to take the chill from her hands and face. Nicholas and Ava were playing on the floor with the toy farm they had received as a Christmas present, lining up pairs of wooden animals outside a red-roofed wooden barn.  Alice was reading in a chair, swinging one foot as she turned pages with a finger.

Ogilvy handed Belle a glass of mulled wine, and she thanked him, lifting it to her nose and breathing in the warm scents of cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves.  She took a sip: sweet, hot wine spread across her tongue, warming her as it went down, and she let out a contented sigh. When she opened her eyes, he was watching her, rolling his own glass between his fingertips.

“Was the Professor serious about heading to the North?” she asked.

“I believe so.”

“Do you have any idea when we might leave?”

“Soon, I expect,” he said.  “Perhaps in the New Year. I suspect we’ll know more when he hears back from Lady Tremaine.”

“I’ve never met Her Ladyship,” said Belle.  “Her daughter is of a similar age to Lady Aurora.  I believe they were debutantes together.”

“It’s likely her daughter will be wintering in Italy, from what Doc told me,” said Ogilvy.  “We may find that there is very little in the way of society when we get there.”

“Well, I don’t suppose it’s anything for me to worry about,” she said.  “It’s not as though I would have any contact with the family, is it?”

“We’ll see,” he said.  “It seems a pity for you to go all that way and then see nothing of the house we’ve been invited to look over.”

He gave her a tiny bow of his head, stepping back and walking over to the fireplace.  Belle chewed her lip, watching him pensively as she cupped her glass of wine in her palms.  Alice tossed aside her book with a sigh and got to her feet.

“I hope they serve the dinner soon, I’m ravenous,” she said, walking over to join Belle.  “That goose smells delicious.”

“It does,” agreed Belle.

“Did you eat with the family at your last place?” asked Alice curiously, and Belle shook her head.

“Almost never,” she said.  “I usually ate in my rooms, but at Christmas I would go down and eat with the housekeeper and butler.  The social rules were much more rigidly-enforced in Lady Ella’s house than here, though not as much as in some other places I’ve heard about.  Lady Ella was kind enough to let me attend Lady Aurora's farewell dinner before she left for Europe.”

“Papa doesn’t care too much about rules,” said Alice.  “I’m sure he only agrees to some of them because it makes Mrs Wolfe happier.  You’ll always have a place with the family in this house.”

She squeezed Belle’s hand affectionately, and Belle returned her warm smile, sending up a prayer of thanks for the kindness she had been shown by this odd little family.

* * *

The dinner was delicious, the goose roasted to perfection, crisp skin crunching between the teeth and tender meat rich with fat and smothered in a delicious gravy. Gooseberry sauce was served with it, its sharp sweetness an excellent contrast to the richness of the meat.  Belle was pleasantly full even before being served a slice of plum pudding, dark and moist and smelling of brandy, spices and plump fruit. By the time the dinner was cleared away, she was feeling a little sleepy, the rich food and wine taking its toll, and she took a walk with Alice around the hothouse to liven herself up, enjoying the sight of vibrant green plants and the scent of growing things.

After dinner there was the exchanging of presents, the servants coming up from the kitchens to be thanked for their service that year, and to be presented with gifts from the family.  They appeared to have been carefully chosen according to individual needs and tastes; books, warm woollen shawls, bolts of fine linen, and comfortable slippers. Each was given a purse of money alongside the gifts, and returned to the kitchens with beaming smiles, leaving the family alone in the living room.

Belle was also given gifts; homemade peppermint creams from the twins, somewhat misshapen and sticky, but which she pronounced delicious, and a fine embroidered shawl from Alice.  There was a set of six books from the Professor, bound with calfskin and containing folk tales and legends of the British Isles. Belle leafed through the first avidly, smiling at the beautiful illustrations.

“I shall enjoy reading these,” she announced.  “Folk tales have always fascinated me, and these are so beautifully presented.”

“I have plenty of books on that subject in the library,” said the Professor.  “Once you’ve read those, I’d be happy to recommend some others.”

“Thank you,” said Belle, smiling at him.  “I’d be delighted.”

“May I see?” asked Alice.

Belle handed her the books, which she took and immediately curled up on the couch to read.  The cat, Charlie, had found his way down from the Professor’s study, and was curled on one of the cushions next to Alice, his tail over his nose.  He was a long-haired tabby with white feet and a white patch on his chest, and seemed a good-tempered creature, although he still smelt strongly of vinegar from the flea bath he had been given. Belle turned back to Ogilvy, who smiled at her, eyes twinkling behind his glasses.

“Happy Christmas,” he said, and handed her a large, soft parcel, which she unwrapped to reveal a thick bolt of silk in a beautiful shade of cobalt blue.

“Oh!” she breathed.

Lamplight gleamed on the silk, and she ran her fingertips over, feeling the quality of it.  It was entirely proper for her employers to buy cloth as a gift for her, but she had certainly not expected silk.

“I - ah - thought it would bring out your eyes,” he said.

Belle looked up sharply as Alice made a strangled sort of noise before coughing.  Ogilvy was gazing at her, a tiny smile curving his mouth, and a softness in his expression which she was unsure how to interpret.  She could feel a blush rising in her cheeks, but then the Professor cleared his throat, and Ogilvy looked away, taking a step back from her.

“It’s lovely,” she said.  “Really lovely. Thank you, I - I must visit a dressmaker.”

“You can use mine,” said Alice carelessly.  “She’s due to come to the house in two days’ time, it would be no trouble to have her measure you up for something.”

“That’s very kind,” said Belle.  “If she agrees, of course. She may not wish to.”

“Oh, Madame isn’t a snob,” said Alice.  “She won’t care that you’re the governess.  I can already hear her exclaiming over what a pretty thing you are.  You’ll see.”

Belle bit back a smile.  Alice clearly hadn’t been exaggerating when she said that social rules were largely ignored in their household, but she found she didn’t mind.  To be treated as one of the family by them was almost like returning to what her life would have been, had her father not brought about his own ruin.  In another life, she would have been the lady of the household. She would be living in Sydney, married to one of her own class.  Married to someone who would no doubt be most unlikely to want to take in orphaned children from the streets and call them his own.  She glanced over at Ogilvy, met his eyes, and looked away quickly, feeling herself blush again. Perhaps she was better off in this new life, with her lower status, excellent education and kind employers, than stuck in the rigid, confined role of a lady. Perhaps there was more freedom to decide her own fate.

Present-giving over, the twins returned to playing with their toy farm, and she nodded at the bolt of cloth in her hands.

“I’d better take this to my room,” she said.

“I’ll come up with you,” offered Alice, gathering the books together on her lap.  “Will you play for us afterwards? We could sing carols.”

“Yes!” piped up Ava, from the floor, and Belle smiled.

“I’d be happy to.”

Ogilvy watched Belle and Alice leave, skirts rustling and the low murmur of voices as they chatted to each other.  The twins were seated by the toy farm buildings, and were bickering about which wooden cow would win a local livestock competition they appeared to have invented.  He smiled to himself, and went to the drinks cabinet to pour himself something. Footsteps behind him made him glance around as Doc sidled up.

“Drink?” asked Ogilvy.

“A glass of Madeira, I think.”

“Excellent idea, I’ll join you.”

He took two glasses from the cabinet and uncorked the Madeira, pouring out two rich, dark measures and handing one to Doc.  Taking a sip, he let the sweet liquor spread over his tongue, and nodded approvingly. Doc was watching him thoughtfully from beneath his messy white fringe, and Ogilvy sighed, rolling his eyes.

“What?” he asked.  Doc shrugged.

“It’s just that of all the times we’ve done this, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you so hopelessly and _obviously_ lovesick,” he remarked.  “‘I thought it would bring out your eyes’, really?”

“I can’t help it!” snapped Ogilvy.  “What am I supposed to do, pretend she has no effect on me?”

“Well, perhaps be a little less overt until she gets to know you a little better,” suggested Doc.  “As you said earlier, we don't want to scare her away.  Nor do we want to make things difficult for her with the other servants or society in general.  I’m sure Hatter and Mrs Wolfe already suspect something, and while they may know how to keep quiet, not everyone has their integrity.  You know how rumours start in this wretched town.”

“I don’t care about gossip,” he said impatiently.

“No, but I suspect Belle does.”

That was true.  Ogilvy sucked his teeth, frowning.

“You’re right,” he conceded.  “I probably shouldn’t have danced with her either.”

Doc almost choked on his drink, eyes widening.

“When was this?”

“Last night.”  He couldn't even pretend to feel sorry about it.  "After you'd all gone to bed."

“You danced with her alone?” said Doc, blinking rapidly.  “And she agreed?”

“She did.”  He smiled at the memory.  “It appears she has as little regard for convention as we do.”

“Yes, and if it gets out, she’ll suffer the scorn of others far more than we would,” said Doc sternly.  “At least _try_ to keep a sense of decorum.”

“You’re right, you’re right…”  Ogilvy shook his head. “To touch her, to dance with her again, though - I couldn’t resist.”

“Well, I suppose at least you didn’t kiss her.”

“Give me _some_ credit.”  He took another sip.  “I sang to her. One of the old songs we used to sing. She didn’t know it, but—”

He shrugged, as if to say that there had been some spark of recognition there, and Doc smiled.

“Well, perhaps it’ll all help,” he said gently.  “Have faith. She’ll come back to us, I can feel it.”

He nodded, taking another sip of his drink, turning towards the door as he heard the sound of Belle and Alice returning.  Alice put her head around the door first, blonde curls swinging.

“Belle said that she’ll play piano,” she announced.  “Come on through to the drawing room. Nicholas, Ava, you can come too.”

The twins scrambled up, trotting after her, and Ogilvy shared an amused look with Doc before following them out, skirting the scattered wooden farm animals on the rug.  The piano was rarely used unless he or Hatter decided to play something; Alice had not kept up with her practice. When they arrived in the drawing room, Belle was just sitting down at the piano, smoothing her skirts as she settled herself on the chair.  A sheaf of music was already on there, and Ogilvy recalled that he had played a little Chopin a day or two before Belle had arrived. Belle glanced up at Alice.

“Do you play?” she asked curiously, and Alice looked rueful.

“Badly,” she admitted.  “Papa plays a little. Hatter plays too, when he thinks no one’s around.  Ask nicely and he may play you his repertoire of bawdy music hall songs. He even pulls funny faces while doing it.”

Belle giggled, and Alice whipped the Chopin away, replacing it with a booklet of Christmas sheet music.  Belle began to play  _O Come, All Ye Faithful_ , Alice singing along with her and encouraging Ava and Nicholas to join in. The twins grew more confident as the song progressed, and finished with beaming smiles. Alice turned the pages, finding another carol, and Belle began to play _Joy to the World_.  This time the children joined in almost at once.

Ogilvy watched them from his place by the fire, a tiny smile on his face as he tapped his foot to the music.  For all her protestations as to her supposed lack of talent, Belle could hold a tune admirably.

“Well, it’s been a lovely day,” said Doc, standing at his side with the glass of Madeira in his hand.  “Having the family together. Excellent food and wine and festive music. I’d almost forgotten how good it could feel.”

Ogilvy nodded.

“Here’s to many more Midwinter celebrations together,” he said quietly, and they clinked glasses before drinking.  The wine burned in his throat.

“Any word from Lady Tremaine?” he asked then, and Doc shook his head.

“I wasn’t expecting a response today anyway,” he said.  “I suspect we’ll hear tomorrow.”

“I suppose we’ll take the train north,” said Ogilvy.  “I thought we might visit Lady Ella on the way, if she’s in the country.  It would seem a reasonable place to take a break in our journey, and I daresay she’d welcome the company.”

“Good plan.  Will you write to her?”

“As soon as we know when we’re likely to be turning up, yes.”

Doc took a sip of his drink, pursing his lips as he watched those gathered at the piano.

“Should be an interesting trip,” he said quietly.  “I just wish my visions were more - certain.”

“While you’re at it, wish for an end to war and poverty and a lifetime’s supply of fine whisky,” said Ogilvy, in a dry tone, and Doc chuckled.

“You know what I mean.”

He nodded, and took another drink, relishing the smooth taste on his tongue.  Lamplight shone on Belle’s hair, picking out gleaming highlights, and he watched her slender fingers move over the ivory keys to tap out the tune.  Delicate strands of hair had curled at the pale nape of her neck, and he wanted to press his lips to it and feel her shiver, as he had done thousands of times before.  He grimaced, glancing away. _Not helpful._

“Perhaps - perhaps we might find the Seer again,” said Doc, in an undertone.  “She was right about Belle finding us, after all. Perhaps she knows where the stone is hidden.”

“I’ve seen her precisely once since the very first time we were bound,” said Ogilvy, in a weary tone.  “I think the odds of her turning up again are less than good.”

Doc grunted agreement at that.

“Then we’re on our own,” he said grimly.  “Nothing new, I suppose. Still, I have high hopes for our trip.”

“What exactly did you See?” asked Ogilvy, and Doc wrinkled his nose.

“Nothing that made much sense,” he admitted.  “I had a glimpse of you running along a corridor, a - a portrait gallery, it looked like.  The lamps were lit. You looked - agitated.”

“Doesn’t sound that promising.”

“Oh, that part wasn’t what encouraged me to go,” he said, waving an impatient hand.  “It was more - nebulous - than that. A feeling rather than a vision. A certainty of where we needed to go, and a surge of emotion. Perhaps the stone is there, or perhaps we’ll find another way to wake her.”

“Perhaps Lady Tremaine’s ghosts are real,” said Ogilvy dryly, and Doc snorted.

“Well, let’s not get carried away…”

Ogilvy chuckled, and took another sip.

“Well, your visions are usually accurate,” he said.  “I suppose we’ll have to wait and see what they portend.  At the very least it’ll give Alice and the twins a chance to see something of the country.”

“And Belle a chance to remember, perhaps,” said Doc quietly, glancing over at the piano.

* * *

The twins went to bed at six-thirty, tired but happy, and at eight the others were served a light supper of cold meats and cheeses, and mince pies.  They ate in the breakfast room, chatting amiably and sipping glasses of red wine, and by nine o’clock Ogilvy was feeling full, contented, and a little light-headed.

“Shall we move to the library?” he asked.  “I’m sure Hatter would like to clear away in here, and we shouldn’t keep the poor man from his bed.”

“Well,” said Belle, looking around.  “It’s a clear night. I - I had hoped we might use the telescope again.”

“I’m sure Papa would be more than happy to take you upstairs,” said Alice.  “Wouldn’t you, Papa?”

“If Miss Marchland wants to see the stars, by all means,” he said, and Belle smiled at him, making his heart thump.

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

Alice was yawning, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth.

“I think I’ll go to bed,” she said.  “It’s been a long day. I’ll walk up as far as the first floor, but then I’ll say goodnight.”

“I think I’ll go to bed too,” said Doc, pushing his glass away.  Ogilvy glanced at Belle.

“The telescope awaits, then,” he said, uncertain whether she would accept the two of them being alone again. Doc shot him a level look, but Belle’s smile only widened.

“Yes, please.”

* * *

Belle followed Ogilvy up the narrow stairs to the observatory, holding her skirts out of the way as she went. The moon was shining through the glass above, casting shadows as he walked towards the telescope. Stars were scattered overhead, the sky a rich blue-black, and Ogilvy bent his head to the telescope, adjusting the focus with delicate touches of his fingers.  He glanced up as Belle approached.

“Take a look at Ursa Major,” he said.  “It’s an excellent night for stargazing.”

Belle bent her head to the telescope, smiling as the stars jumped into her vision.

“It’s so clear,” she marvelled.  “Beautiful.”

There was silence for a moment as she studied the stars in her sight.

“It’s so strange to think that people have been looking up at that patch of sky for thousands of years and seeing those same stars,” she observed.  “It’s comforting, in a way. That life goes on despite everything, and that there is some certainty to it. That in the centuries to come, others will look up and see the same stars we’re seeing now, unchanged.”

“I daresay some earlier version of you and I gazed upwards and thought the same thing,” he said, and she let out a tiny chuckle, feeling herself blush.

“What is it?” he asked.

Belle thought that she probably shouldn’t say, but the wine and festive good cheer had made her bold, and so she straightened a little, glancing over her shoulder at him.

“It’s the strangest thing,” she said.  “I - I feel comfortable with you, Mr Ogilvy.”

He smiled faintly.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” he said.  “I want you to feel that this is your home, Miss Marchland.  I want you to feel welcome.”

“You’re very kind,” she said.  “And I do feel welcome.”  She hesitated.  “And - and I think a lot of that is due to how comfortable you make me feel.  Not that the others haven’t been wonderfully welcoming, of course, but—”

She cut off, trying to find the right words, but he was silent, waiting, giving her the chance to arrange her thoughts.  Belle straightened up fully, turning to face him

“I’m not sure how to explain it,” she said.  “I - I almost feel as though you and I have met before.  Isn’t that odd?”

He smiled.

“Another life, perhaps?” he suggested, and Belle giggled.

“Do you believe in such things?”

“Yes,” he said simply.  “Don’t you?”

She glanced back at the telescope, chewing her lip.

“I don’t think so,” she said slowly.  “At least - at least it’s certainly not what I was taught.  We have just one life to get things right, don’t we? Or - or not.”

“That seems unfortunate, with human beings as flawed as they are.”

“Perhaps.”

“I imagine in my case it will take at least another hundred lifetimes on top of the hundred I’ve had,” he added, and she chuckled again.

“And how do you feel after your hundred lifetimes?” she teased.  “Superior? Enlightened?”

“Tired.”

Belle laughed delightedly, and he smiled, his eyes crinkling.

“I’d like to hear about all these lives you’ve had,” she said, amused.  “I’m sure there are some incredible tales buried in there somewhere.”

“One day I’ll tell you about how I defeated a soul-sucking demon in the sixth century,” he said.

“By harnessing the power of ancient runes?” she suggested, with a grin, and he inclined his head.

“Actually, I just showed it what I kept under my tunic, but it had the desired effect.”

Belle clapped a hand to her mouth to hold in her giggles, scandalised.

“There _were_ ancient runes tattooed there, if it helps,” he added, and she laughed harder, blushing.

“Really, you are a _terrible_ tease!”

“Wait until you hear about the time I won at dice against a Roman centurion and almost lost my head and my dignity in the process.”

“At least you were fully-dressed,” she said, still blushing, and he grinned.

“Until I got home, yes.”

Belle giggled again, and smoothed her skirt with restless hands, trying to recover some sense of propriety.

“Perhaps we should get back to stargazing,” she said.

“Perhaps so.”

She bent her head to the scope once more, relaxing a little as she studied the blanket of stars above them, and tried to push away the insistent image of Ogilvy - who had taken the thinner, wiry form of the man in her dreams - with a wicked grin on his face and an insolent gleam in his eyes, slowly lifting the hem of a woollen tunic.


End file.
